Sui Generis
by Francesca Wayland
Summary: When Irene Adler contacts Mycroft Holmes with some shocking information and instructs him not to share it with Sherlock, he believes it to be a calculated power play against him. In some ways he's right, but the truth is more complicated, and personal. Could be considered an AU sequel to Neither A Soldier Nor A Gentleman, but it's not necessary to have read that.
1. Prologue

**Summary**: When Irene Adler contacts Mycroft Holmes with some shocking information and instructs him not to share it with Sherlock, he believes it to be a calculated power play against him. In some ways he's right, but the truth is more complicated, and personal. AUish with a post-Reichenbach timeline. Not intended to be part of the same universe as my other story, _Neither A Soldier Nor A Gentleman_, but it may be read as such if you'd like ;)

I have no idea where this idea came from, but it refused to be ignored, and so we'll see what happens with it. . .

Also I'm torn about whether or not Mycroft actually knew about Sherlock's rescue of Irene in Karachi, but for the sake of this story, he really was fooled.

K+ now but rating is sure to get stronger as the story advances.

Disclaimer: No money coming to me, just lots of love for Sherlock and its actors, writers, and creators coming from me!

* * *

**Prologue**

Mycroft Holmes, British Government _De Facto_, was patiently listening to the chords of a Liszt concerto through the earpiece of his office telephone when his assistant barged through the heavy paneled door without knocking, a white envelope in hand, and a complexion to match.

She stopped short at his desk and started to open her mouth, but he put up one forestalling finger, and to his expectation but satisfaction, it shut again immediately.

"Not now, please," he said in a patient but non-negotiating tone. "I'm on hold with Angela, and you now that she gets tetchy when-"

Her voice, more assertive and present than he had ever heard it before, cut directly through his dismissal: "_Sir_."

His eyebrows jumped involuntarily, more in surprise than displeasure, and he scanned his memory to determine whether she had ever interrupted him. She had not.

For a brief moment she looked grimly pleased that she had earned his attention, and then, holding firm eye contact, she placed the single envelope in front of him. The instant he properly caught sight of it, he slammed down the receiver, his eleven o'clock phone appointment with the chancellor forgotten at once, and her expression intensified.

In the upper right corner was affixed a reddish-orange and cream coloured stamp depicting a small aeroplane taking off over ostentatious post-modern buildings. _Flight From Karachi_, it said, in commemoration of some famous but presently irrelevant air journey, and at once Mycroft's lips thinned and twisted with bitter understanding.

On the centre of the envelope feminine script addressed him by name and even by his euphemistic title, and though the upper left corner was left blank of the identity of the woman whose hand had done so, the stamp had already told him everything, as it had been meant to.

Irene Adler.

For a brief but difficult moment, he struggled to reconcile the two parts of his mind. On one hand he clung to the thought _No, it's not possible_. He had been so thorough this time. He recalled the way he had personally put in legwork for the occasion, something he was loath to do apart from the most urgent of situations. Usually he simply enlisted his brother's competent services, though for obvious reasons Sherlock had not been trusted with this mission, despite his show of callous triumph over the woman when they had all last assembled. And so Mycroft had traveled to Pakistan himself to interview everyone even peripherally involved, and not only had all the details of her death coincided with the varying testimonies, but all the statements had uniformly agreed with one another. He had left Asia satisfied that the Adler catastrophe had been put to bed (pun most vehemently not intended), and that he could now primarily focus his efforts on the burgeoning threat of James Moriarty.

In fact, he had been so sure of Ms. Adler's death that he given both the Americans and the Germans his word that the security breach had been permanently contained, not to mention he had made assurances to his colleagues at MI5 and MI6. Confirming the kill had been a necessary step towards repairing relations with both countries after the AirBond debacle (and one the MI6 had rather insisted upon), and yet he would never have done so if he had not been absolutely certain—his professional standing was sacrosanct to him. Without his reputation for infallibility, the position he so greatly enjoyed was precarious.

And yet that was precisely the predicament he now faced, because he could not ignore the proof of his oversight that this envelope represented: Sherlock had reached Irene Adler first, and she was alive.

A spark of rage towards his brother for his ongoing folly over the Adler woman flared, but with practiced determination, he suppressed it for the time-being, and channeled his energy away from the tawdriness of emotion and towards the purity of brainwork.

He stretched a hand towards the envelope, then stopped, took a breath, and reached into a drawer to pull out a pair of leather gloves. He looked up to his PA's face; now her eyes were wide and avid with interest.

Carefully he slit open the envelope to reveal a single sheath of paper, a small bindle made of opaque blue plastic, and a loose memory card.

Without inspecting the other items more closely, he shoved away from his desk and strode to the digital projector mounted above a handsome mid-Georgian mahogany secretaire. He reached up to insert the card into its corresponding slot, grabbed the remote, and jabbed the power button.

The image that filled the immense wall-mounted screen caused his assistant to gasp in shock in a rare show of reaction, and for Mycroft's part, the remote control nearly fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, though apart from a slight widening of his eyes and blanching of his colour, his face remained cold and expressionless. Even while his mind felt icy and numb, his body seemed to go onto autopilot, and he hit the advancing button. Again and again variations of the first image flashed across the screen, slightly unfocused due to the level of magnification, and yet still unmistakable.

"The. . ." he somehow found his voice, despite the fact that he was shaken in a way he had never before experienced, "sachet will contain DNA evidence, I'm sure. Not hair, she's too clever for that. She knows we have people who could track her through her location's unique signature of air pollutant levels, embedded in the strands. Perhaps nail clippings. . ." He said, sounding distant.

"I'll send it to the lab right away, sir - alpha priority," his assistant said, her voice slightly breathless but her manner as competent as ever.

"Yes. Do. Although I expect it will be just as it appears. . ." He took one long, agonising breath. "The child is the picture of my brother when he was that age."

* * *

When she left, the physical evidence in hand, he allowed himself to sink into his seat in a daze, and he recalled that there had been a slip of paper included as well. A note?

He lifted the envelope, and contemplated its exterior, this time with greater scrutiny.

The Karachi stamp had postmarks indicating that it had been sent one week before, but obviously she wasn't still there and she was merely toying with him. She was underlining his failure to realise she had not been executed, and perhaps also making an implication about where the boy had been conceived. He quickly did the math and yes, it did appear that during the time she had allegedly died, she had actually been creating a new life instead—in a way other than simply taking on her new identity.

He studied the envelope itself. The paper was not expensive; it was flimsy and low-quality cardstock, and of non-standard dimensions. He inferred that it came from an upper mid-range hotel, perhaps the very hotel Sherlock had arranged for them. . . But the thought ignited that anger again, and he deliberately turned back to his observations.

She must have taken some of the stationary with her, knowing that she would eventually taunt him with her escape (or alternatively it was sentiment, although that seemed rather implausible, given the woman in question). But it was the pen that was far more telling. Palladium-silver alloy nib, perhaps a Sheaffer, and dye-based ink. That certainly seemed to imply that wherever she was now, she wasn't destitute.

He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and the masthead reading Hotel Mehran confirmed his earlier conclusion. Below that, centred on the page, she had written in small, embellished script just three words: "Don't tell him."

In that instant, Mycroft understood almost everything that had happened.

First: Sherlock had deceived him on a staggering, unprecedented scale. But of course that much had been obvious from the moment he'd laid his eyes upon the stamp on the envelope.

Second, and the far more salient matter: this envelope and the secret it carried constituted Irene Adler's revenge upon him.

He wasn't so arrogant as to believe that her motives for the conception itself were at all connected to her desire to taunt him or garner protection against him—he wasn't even certain whether it had been planned on her part or if she were taking advantage of an accident.

However, now that she had given birth to (biologically, at least) a Holmes, she was certainly exploiting the situation: her notification of the infant's existence clearly was meant as retribution, and her revelation that she was alive after he had staked his reputation on her death certainly was, as well. Because now of course it wasn't just Sherlock from whom he had to withhold critical information—it was the MI-5, the MI-6, the Germans, the Americans, and several other powerful parties who had been delighted to learn of her demise.

_She's terribly good_, he thought, but unlike his brother it was in bitterness more than in admiration.

In one neat little package (literally) she had targeted the only two things for which he cared: his career and his younger brother. Without the complication of the child, Mycroft might not have hesitated to respond ruthlessly this time, tracking her down until reality matched the story he had given his colleagues, and he was no longer an unwitting liar. One part of him was still tempted to do so, and place the infant under his stewardship—perhaps that would be better for the child anyway, more stable. Sherlock would never have to know of any of it; Mycroft could set up a house in some rural, hedge-rowed corner of England, and the boy's care could be managed by a litany of nurses and tutors, and then when the time came: boarding school. It wouldn't vary so wildly from his and Sherlock's own childhoods in that respect.

But almost as soon as he became convinced that he should take that course of action, he realised that in fact, such a scenario was unsustainable. It would be difficult enough to prevent Sherlock from figuring out this secret as it was, with his nephew God knew where. But if Mycroft personally oversaw his upbringing? Impossible.

Third, if experience with Ms. Adler had taught him anything, it was that this wasn't merely hollow revenge, but also a prologue to something greater—something that would directly benefit her interests.

Yes, she certainly had an agenda, but she would still enjoy the setting of the stage and intensifying of the suspense before she made her next move. Though when that came, it was sure to be cold, concise, brutal, and brilliant. She would slice all that previous pretension away as deftly as a surgeon.

But even though this revenge was simply the preface to what was to come, it was a palpable hit, because it created an agonising dilemma for him. On one hand he felt that he must confront Sherlock about his clear role in (i.e. obvious engineering of) her rescue. . .To have him explain how he had done it, how he had tricked Mycroft so successfully. And then demand to know what had possessed him to make himself so vulnerable to such a person. . . To risk precisely this scenario. How could he have been such a bloody fool?!

But on the other hand he wanted to shield his younger brother from her, as he had not before, protect Sherlock from being drawn into her renewed power play, but also protect his lifestyle, a life that had been so hard-earned in its relative tranquility and productivity. Knowing he had sired a child with that wretched Adler woman would undermine everything—especially if he had any type of emotional attachment towards her, which was becoming ever more clearly evident.

And so he must adhere to Ms. Adler's request and keep the dreadful burden of his knowledge to himself. He could not push Sherlock into her path again, this time with most likely permanent repercussions. For now, he would do as she asked, as terribly as that chafed.

She had secured for herself perhaps the only thing that would not only stay his hand against her, but actually incline him to provide her protection or financial support of any kind. As troublesome as his mother was, the child was his nephew and the unexpected continuation of what had been a very long and historied English line, which he had been certain would end with he and his brother. And the infant was an innocent, despite the fact that he would doubtful remain that way for long, given his parentage, particularly on the maternal side.

He felt his fury towards his brother kindle again, and this time it was harder to control. He didn't begrudge the fact that Sherlock had tricked him in and of itself (he was actually subjectively impressed and proud of his brother for accomplishing such a feat), but he could not abide how he had so degraded himself with that woman. If Sherlock had been able to exhibit any semblance of self-control, he would not have created this situation, for which his older brother was now paying the price.

_But of course_, Mycroft reminded himself, breathing through his nostrils, _I am personally to blame for all of this_. He had pushed Sherlock right into Irene Adler's trap in the first place, and now he must face the consequences with stoicism and dignity.

Still, that wouldn't stop him from tracking down "the late Irene Adler." Perhaps she wouldn't be between his crosshairs, but he needed all the data he could get, and though he was usually content to sit passively and have others gather intelligence for him, this time the matter was altogether too personal and potentially destructive—to himself and to his brother—to trust anyone but a Holmes.

And in this case, Sherlock would most certainly _not _be on hand.

* * *

For several weeks he and his assistant dedicated themselves to following every ghost of a thread left by Sherlock.

He re-confronted everyone whom he had previously interviewed, this time informing them that he knew that they were lying to him, and menacing them with untold things in the same civil tone he might use to order a tea from his PA. Inevitably each person folded, and he began to piece together how Sherlock had tricked him. As aggravated, bordering on furious, as Mycroft was, he couldn't help but feel a measure of fraternal pride over the beauty and complexity of Sherlock's exfiltration, and begrudging respect for how his younger brother had so shrewdly covered his tracks. Sherlock had designed the entire rescue with one central objective: to use every vulnerability of Mycroft's against him in order to craft a lie exactly tailored to him. Mycroft was certain that no one in the world could even perceive that he had any weaknesses, let alone plan and carry out an entire ex-fil based on the exploitation of them.

_Correction_, he amended, ever striving for precision._ Sherlock—and Irene Adler_. Her discernment and exploitation of his vulnerabilities were, after all, the twin catalysts for his return to Pakistan.

_They _are_ indeed a pair_, Mycroft mused darkly. However, where Sherlock's deceptive actions were an _ex post_ reaction to her capture and means to what he obviously perceived as just ends, hers appeared to be _ex ante_ and aggressive—a power play, and certainly soon to be even more. And that, he thought, was the singular difference between she and his brother.

And yet, despite the increasingly comprehensive picture he had of what had happened in Karachi and its immediate aftermath, no one knew where she had gone after they had parted ways, nor what her current alias might be. The trail went cold at a radius of 130 miles in any given direction of the city, land or sea, and the one man who could tell him everything, Sherlock, was the one man he wasn't willing to confront. Oh, caring was such dreadful a disadvantage—every conceivable element of this scenario proved that again and again.

On his fourth night in Pakistan, and the final evening before their return to London, his aide knocked gently on the door of his guest room in the High Commisioner's house, where he was staying for the duration of their repeat investigation. He called for her to enter, and when she did she silently handed him a dossier of A4 sheets. He flipped it open expecting to find new intelligence on the location of the Adler woman, but instead he was confronted with the insignia of an internal laboratory to which he had full access. It stated that the DNA evidence Irene Adler provided (skin cells swabbed from inside the cheek, as it turned out) proved conclusively that the child whose images were stored on the USB stick was indeed the progeny of she and his brother. Despite his belief that he had already internalised and to a degree accepted this catastrophe, he had still gone faint when he'd read the official words.

From the time he had first received the letter, onward, he avoided getting in touch with his brother full stop, and though it did irritate him that Sherlock never initiated communication himself, Mycroft reminded himself that until he receiver Adler's next communication (which precedent told him was inevitable) it was best that he refrain from any contact. He prided himself on his iron self control, but Sherlock had always been Mycroft's weak point, as apparently Irene Adler was Sherlock's. And so Mycroft was gripped with the fear that he would unintentionally blurt out the news in a blend of concern and anger, unable to look at his brother and contain such explosive information. And so he waited.

It irked him that on top of everything else, he had no way of even contacting her, which distinctly put him in her control even further, and completely re-established the dynamic of power that had existed between them prior to Sherlock's little revelation the year previous. He could only learn of the next fragment of her plan when she chose to reveal it to him, and even then she would do so in such a way that would decidedly favour her and her agenda. And yet still his eyes jumped through his mail each day looking for her elegant hand, an uncontrollable tic which filled him with loathing—towards himself, towards her, and even towards Sherlock at times.

It was a bitter reminder of how she had gained full control of both Holmes brothers once again.


	2. The Adler Conundrum

**Thanks for your wonderful comments and feedback so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy this! Apologies if this chapter is a bit politic-y, but it is from Mycroft's POV and like his brother he seems rather consumed by his work ;)**

* * *

**The Adler Conundrum**

From the moment he had seen the image of the infant on his projection screen, at once so familiar and so shocking, Mycroft had resolved to track down Irene Adler—and to do so without taking the risk of interrogating his brother. He was confident that between himself and his agents he could uncover the truth without involving Sherlock at all, and initially, shortly into his arrival in Karachi, it seemed as if this would be possible. However, after an additional month passed and there was no further communication from Irene, nor had he discovered any leads as to her whereabouts, his determination not to use try to use his brother as a resource began to waver.

He and his team had pursued every viable lead and some decidedly nonviable leads beyond that, but in only a few short weeks after his return, he had found himself in the unprecedented position of having no further recourse. All of her former contacts in London convincingly believed she was dead, Karachi was a dry well, and her financials had obviously been raided by someone, and yet the actual transactions were inscrutable to even their top forensic accountants. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that so many were unequal to the task of deciphering a mystery created by Sherlock Holmes, and though a certain fraternal pride in his brother still lingered, his frustration was definitely starting to override it.

More than anything, Mycroft loathed his lack of agency in the situation, as it completely subverted the natural order of his life. He enjoyed never being answerable to anyone but himself and ERII, and the longer Ms. Adler dragged on this silent waiting game, the more difficult it became to play the passive role, and he started to become fixated on at least discovering her location. He was aware that it was probably a mere token, but in his desperation the thought of speaking with Sherlock became increasingly more enticing. He was the one link that joined everything together.

Just when Mycroft felt his resolve ebbing away entirely, his aide came to him in the closest approximation to excitement he had seen since the day she had brought in that hateful package. She stood across from him at his desk, and though her voice sounded even and detached, a certain confidence in her movements betrayed her excitement.

"I may have found her," she informed him, and he felt a flicker of hope for the first time since they had returned to Britain.

She explained to him that she'd heard tales and rumours circulating amongst certain members of the diplomatic corps based at the Embassy in Washington, the UN in New York, and various consulates along the Eastern Seaboard. They whispered of a woman who could dominate anyone, male or female, whether it was with whips—or wits.

When his aide had started asking around under the guise of wanting to book a session (as herself—she was clever enough to realise that the more egregious and risky her own indiscretion appeared, the higher the rewards she'd reap), the breathless, avid responses she'd gathered had set the kindling of her suspicions ablaze.

One high-ranking female official at the UK Mission to the UN had called the dominatrix in question "a hurricane of intellectual sexuality" and another man shared anecdotes about how she could make even most hardcore BDSM scene somehow romantic and timelessly glamourous. Someone else had observed that she seemed to be able to transform herself into any character that the client would most desire. "She," he had said, "seemed to know exactly what I liked." But most damning was the fact that her appearance seemed to coincide precisely with when Irene Adler had disappeared.

"And then an hour ago I was finally trusted with the password to her website," she concluded in a slightly breathless voice. "Which is where I saw _this_." She laid a glossy piece of A4 on Mycroft's desk, her cheeks flushing faintly in satisfaction.

"She's adopted an American accent judging by some of the video on her page, but it's her, isn't it? I've just sent it to the lab to run it through facial recognition, but I wanted to brief you immediately as well... She goes by the professional name 'Stormy Leather' now."

As Mycroft's PA had laid out her increasingly persuasive evidence, the often-experienced but still gratifying feeling of victory within grasp swelled in him—so sweet after weeks of frustration—and it was was with uncharacteristic eagerness that he leaned forward to examine the photograph.

He was first struck by its resemblance in style and content to those he had procured from _The Woman_'s website nearly two years prior. A slender, fair, and dark-haired woman with highly-defined cheekbones lay across a swath of rich crimson velvet in a state of effortless elegance, engaging the viewer with a challenging yet seductive expression. The anticipation blossomed into the thrill of triumph, and a burst of adrenaline flooded his system...

But then as soon as it had come it dissipated again, and was replaced by crushing disappointment.

"No," he said, his voice reassuringly bland, and not at all reflective of the frustration he felt. "I can see the resemblance, but no. It's not her, merely her west hemisphere equivalent. I imagine that wherever powerful men and woman with various Freudian complexes congregate, women of her profession will flourish."  
_  
Though perhaps not _quite _of_ _Irene Adler's calibre,_ he added silently. He rather suspected this woman wouldn't have proven nearly the emotional and intellectual foil to his brother as Ms. Adler had. But then again, who could?

"Cancel the lab request."

He pushed the photograph away from himself with the tip of one finger, then, ignoring the look of hastily suppressed disappointment on his PA's face (she wasn't nearly as skilled as he—yet), he leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin, surveying his options once again.

Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious that this changed nothing at all, and that Irene Adler was still as firmly in control of the situation as ever, and once again he allowed his thoughts to turn to his brother.

_Perhaps I _should_ speak with him_, he considered, while all too aware of how rash and dangerous an impulse that was. Doing so could be Mycroft's key to everything—or his very real destruction if Ms. Adler found out and it incited her wrath.

But despite the acknowledged risk, he was so accustomed to being able to utilise Sherlock, that it was frustrating (to put it mildly) to be deprived of his talent. Besides, Mycroft was an accomplished interrogator, and as long as he asked precisely the right questions in precisely the right way, Sherlock would never have to know anything beyond the fact that Mycroft had discovered that she was alive because of Sherlock. Even if Sherlock refused to answer him outright (which was highly possible; he never liked to make anything easy for his elder brother, nor would he readily give up details on such a successfully orchestrated and executed mission), his reactions alone would be ripe for analysis.

And yet ironically, Mycroft would have no reason to speak with Sherlock about her at all, if he weren't attempting to locate her as a direct result of her contact with him, and the power-play she had instigated. He'd still be as blissfully ignorant of her survival as Sherlock was of the shocking consequence of his affair with her.

It was that thought that gave him real pause. Irene's implied threats aside, was Mycroft willing to risk setting Sherlock on a path of discovery that would ultimately turn his entire life upside-down? Yes, he _was_ excellent at obfuscation but his brother was almost equally good at detection, and Sherlock finally seemed content after a very rocky period of adjustment in the aftermath of returning 'from the dead.' But his good reputation had been resurrected and the architect behind it all had committed suicide. And though he didn't suspect that Sherlock's relationship with John Watson was anything more than platonic, it was obvious that the man was very good for his brother—and it had taken a tense period of time for them to finally reach their former levels of trust and ease with one another, as well. Did Mycroft now dare to jeopardise his brother's happiness after so much adversity?

Alone in his office, he allowed himself the indulgence of a deep grimace and sigh at his dilemma. The situation was a wretched ourobouros of professional, familial, and compulsory obligation, and she had undoubtedly enclosed him within its confines with the utmost deliberation and glee.

He turned, as was his practice since boyhood when confronted with anything messy or emotional, to the solace of thought and reason. Thought and reason were constant, comprehensible, and uncapricious, and the only valid means by which to organise a mind muddled by things such as sentiment.

And so with a sigh of both relief and gratification, he withdrew to his mind, and devised a comprehensive cost/benefits assessment within a matter of seconds.

_**Current status: **__Irene had contacted him to inform him that not only was she alive, but that she had conceived a child with Sherlock. Sherlock himself was only aware of his first role but not his second, and both Irene and Mycroft wished to maintain that status for the time-being._

_**Objective: **__To locate Irene Adler so as to attempt in-person negotiations, without the unnecessary dramatics of cryptic messages or power plays. Protection and significant financial support were anticipated concessions and would be granted without dispute for the sake of the child, but he needed to know if her agenda contained any additional elements, and be prepared to negotiate unforeseen terms._

_**Benefit: **__It was probable that his brother, Sherlock Holmes, knew where Ms. Adler was settled and what alias was used, or at least had some awareness of a possible location._

_**Cost: **__Consulting with him in any way but the most oblique and strategic manner possible would alert Sherlock's suspicions._

_**Benefit: **__Sherlock would attempt to contact her or even perhaps go to her, which could lead Mycroft (or at least his agents) to her._

_**Cost: **__Sherlock could (more probable: _would_) discover the existence of his son in the process of finding Ms. Adler. In retaliation for his noncompliance with her request, she could then inform his colleagues in The United States and Germany that she was alive, and moreover, and that the younger Holmes brother had carried out the entire mission from the initial rescue to her patriation in [wherever she was] under falsified documents. (Additionally, it would wreak havoc on Sherlock's life as well, which was a very potent disincentive as well).  
_

_**Final Assessment of risk: **__His American and German counterparts would believe—and understandably so—that he had been involved in Ms. Adler's exfiltration, and that he had wilfully conspired to deceive them. All trust, so essential in his delicate position, would be lost, and he would be utterly finished—cast off in disgrace._

He blanched at the thought, and actually felt physically ill. He had seen how badly Sherlock coped with boredom, and fortunately for himself he'd never suffered that plight due to the ongoing and rigorous demands of his occupation. But if he were deprived of that position, if had nothing to constantly fuel the roaring freight train of his mind, he suspected his reactions would be far worse than a few bullet holes in a wall. Suicide would likely not be out of the realm of possibility, he understood with cold but lucid dread.

There were worse things than being (temporarily) bested by the woman who had nearly brought England to its knees, he realised, and with that sobering perspective, he accepted the findings of his assessment, and managed to suppress the urge to reach out to his brother.

And so it wasn't the keen disappointment of a false lead or the indignity of being relegated to a passive role that finally broke Mycroft's resolve.

Ultimately, it was politics.

There was never such thing as a lull in his professional life—the very nature of his work meant that there was a ceaseless demand for his attention: the near discovery of corruption in a distant election he was helping to fix, the disappearance of a governor's child in a politically unstable country which could incite a civil war, or even the acrimonious romantic break-up of a team of talented British scientists who had been at the forefront of zero-point energy technology research, which threatened the entire project (a further blow against 'caring,' as if he'd needed any additional evidence...). These were all within his purview, and just a sampling of matters that had arisen in the past week alone.

However, as demanding as his usual duties could be, they had in no way detracted focus from The Adler Conundrum (as he had taken to calling it). Far from it, since he had been able to adjust his schedule and go to Asia to investigate the circumstances of Ms. Adler's survival, when he had first received the package. He had become so deft and masterful at his role that he could literally resolve a labour strike or minor economic collapse over breakfast, and under normal circumstances there would have been no problem in adding one more layer of ongoing complexity to his workload.

And yet unfortunately, current developments were far exceeding the status quo's level of demand... The minor headaches that had cropped up in the past week were trivia compared with one issue that had been steadily escalating over the past year, and had rapidly come to a head in the past month: The upcoming changes to the United Kingdom's status in the European Union.

Although he wasn't as outwardly arrogant as Sherlock, neither did he bother with false modesty. He was the most brilliant man in Britain, and certainly one of the greatest strategists in the world. And yet very occasionally a paradigm would shift despite his best efforts, and the growing sentiment in Britain that it should renegotiate its role in the European Union was a force Mycroft found he could neither moderate nor ignore.

In an effort to avoid a crisis, he held meetings on a daily basis that often stretched from pre-dawn to midnight and beyond, whether with the Prime Minister, ranking members of the QC, the head of the Bank of England, the president and director-general of CBI, or his counterparts in the founding member states of the EU. Even the Americans were hammering at his door: they were vigorously opposed to any change because the UK currently represented their interests in the EU due to the two countries' 'special relationship,' and a change in status threatened that. The matter so monopolised his work—and therefore his life—that for the first time since his early twenties, he had been forced to delegate all other tasks aside from those deemed most critical.

And so, with the rising tensions between the EU, The US, and various factions within the UK, Ms. Adler could not have chosen a more pernicious time to drop her bombshell on Mycroft. Having to manage such high-stakes personal and professional issues simultaneously left him feeling stretched and overwhelmed in a manner which was entirely unprecedented, and during one rare moment not spent considering charters, historical treaties, the single currency, or veto powers, it occurred to him that her timing must have been deliberate.

After all, someone as clever and politically attuned as she had been would be aware that tensions regarding the UK's role within the EU had been escalating for years, and were coming to a critical point around this time. She'd also know full well that he would be integrally involved in the matter, and therefore he would be preoccupied and unable to respond to her in his usual decisive and ruthless manner.

Then one night after a particularly tense standoff between himself and his colleagues from The Netherlands and Germany, it occurred to him that in fact Ms. Adler's cunning went even further.

During the meeting, the German had furiously accused Mycroft of blackmail when Mycroft had reminded him that Britain could veto changes to the single currency treaty if it were unable to get the reforms it sought, and as Mycroft lay in the single bed in his office's anteroom, he considered the concepts of blackmail, leverage, and power dynamics. This in turn led him to comprehend the full extent to which Ms. Adler had out-manoeuvred him.

Obviously she could count on him not to react to her gauntlet as rigorously as he would under normal circumstances. But she was also shrewd enough to realise that because Mycroft was already coping with one very serious and potentially volatile situation, he would be rather inclined to meet her demands so as to avoid the additional risk and uncertainty of another one.

But even more critically, she would know that now, more than ever, he was vulnerable to scandal, and would go to any measure to avoid even the faintest whiff of one. Obviously he was already invested in avoiding scandal due to self-preservation, but in the current situation the stakes were exponentially higher. In every way that mattered, he was the lynchpin in the negotiations between all the various stakeholders, and if he were to fall into disgrace the very delicate process would collapse, resulting in devastating consequences for Britain, its 'special relationship' with the United States, and the world economy.

As she might commend him for saying, she had him well and properly trussed.

One week later, following another day and night spent in ferocious debate with leaders from Brussels, The Hague, Berlin, and Washington, Mycroft sat alone in his office during a rare moment of solitude, holding a tumbler of 25-year-old single-malt Talisker whiskey in one hand and searching through his desk for some very deserved, _full_-tar cigarettes with the other. While rooting about in his top drawer, the back of his hand brushed against the edge of a file, lifting up the corner slightly to reveal a glossy photograph below. Frowning, he pulled out the picture and gazed at the red herring that had been the American dominatrix.

He stared at it for several long moments, and in his mind it began to symbolise all his powerlessness and passivity in his handling of the Adler woman and her unknown agenda. It was only an image, but under the dominatrix's challenging gaze he felt the implied dynamics keenly—as well as a measure of self-loathing. After all, following that false lead, he had essentially accepted a passive role and allowed her continue setting the pace and terms.

Then suddenly, and very clearly, he thought, _No. No, this will not do_.

And perhaps because he was sleep-deprived, slightly intoxicated, and regrettably emotionally invested and therefore slightly irrational, he realised that the very factors that had prevented him from seeking out Irene Adler were in fact the precise reasons why he _should_ locate and speak with her as soon as possible.

He straightened, and shoved the photograph haphazardly back in the drawer, his mind becoming clearer at the prospect of a potentially crucial new development. Still, he wouldn't implement a new strategy under these dissatisfactory mental conditions; his idea would have to pass through the same cost/benefits analysis framework he had used before.

He closed his eyes lightly, and despite his exhaustion and slight inebriation, the concepts and words flowed into place with satisfying clicks.

_**Cost**__: He was dealing with great volatility and uncertainty in respect to the UK's future role in the EU_

_**Benefit**__: As such, he felt is was essential to seize control where he could, to the degree he could, specifically in terms of his management of the Adler Conundrum._

_**Cost**__: The stakes of his current project were so high that he could not risk unexpected scandal._

_**Benefit**__: If he located her it was possible that he could convince her to make her terms more transparent, so that he could devise a strategy accordingly. He would accommodate her as much as he possibly could (and perhaps even then some), just to get this over with and not have her sword at the back of his neck at all times._

He noted the unpleasant irony of that metaphor, but continued his assessment.  
_  
__**Cost**__: She could threaten him with exposure._

_**Benefit**__: He, in turn, would point out that this would result in her protection and financial support vanishing. After all, if forced to give up his role he would hardly be in a position to grant her such favours. As long as she wasn't like the scorpion in the fable about the scorpion and the frog, she would act in the way that most benefitted her and the child._

He stomach dropped at the last word, as it did every time he remembered that this was all due to the fact that Sherlock had fathered a son with Irene Adler. He tended to lose sight of that critical fact between the demands of his work and the extremely trying dynamic he had with the infant's mother, and the reminder only made him more resolute. The time had come to take greater control of the situation and utilise the one, best resource he had.

More energised than he had felt in weeks, he downed the last dram of the spirit and pulled on his jacket in one swift movement, then fished his phone from his pocket and sent off a text to his aide as he strode from his office.

_-Have the car round front ASAP.-_

Despite the lateness of the hour, her response pinged on his phone almost immediately, just as he had expected that it would.

_-Certainly, sir. Where to?-_

On the lift down he typed back his reply, a look of grim determination on his face.

_-221B Baker Street. I'm going to pay my brother a visit.-_

* * *

**QC: Queen's Counsel.**

** CBI: Confederatoin of British Industry: Incorporated by Royal Charter, the CBI is the foremost lobbying organisation for UK business on national and international issues. It works with the UK government, international legislators and policymakers to help UK businesses compete effectively.**

**A few things:**

**1. "Stormy Leather" is a real person. Be aware that a search is potentially NSFW.**

**2. The POV will switch between Mycroft and Sherlock.**

**3. The next chapter is already written and will be posted tomorrow after some final editing.**

**Thanks so much for reading!  
**


	3. Confrontations

**Confrontations  
**

When Mycroft entered Flat B, he was marginally soberer and more composed, but still committed to his course. He had checked and rechecked his findings in the car, and was confident that they justified this action, risky though it was.

He found Sherlock sprawled out in their father's Le Corbusier chair by the fireplace, a thick folio of what looked like old tube and sewer plans open across his lap, and an obviously cold mug of tea by his foot.

"What are you doing here?" his brother asked without looking up, his tone a touch recalcitrant as usual. "You usually ring if you can help it—save yourself the _ordeal _of a trip."

He ignored Sherlock's dig, and lifted his chin. "Not if I have something particularly pressing to discuss with you."

"True," Sherlock conceded, sounding bored. "What is it?" he asked, finally looking up and gracing Mycroft with his eye contact, mocking though it was. "Has the queen's favourite corgi gone missing again? I'd check the main larder, it's —"

"No," Mycroft cut in, and then tried to force a smile onto his face, though he knew it looked more like a grimace. His brother could be so infuriating, so quickly. "I'm here to talk about something more personal."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment almost as if sizing him up, then drawled, "Oh God, must we?" He pointedly turned his attention back to the folio, and Mycroft felt a stab of real anger.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm afraid we must," he said, his tone sharper. He paused for a moment, then, watching his brother very carefully, stated: "Irene Adler is alive."

"Mm, John said," Sherlock replied, in the atonal voice of completely disinterest. Apparently he hadn't yet sensed danger in Mycroft's tone. "Ages ago. Your point?"

Mycroft shook his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. His brother's studied nonchalance told him everything he needed to know about how this was going to go—not that he had at all expected for it to be easy.

"Let's not play games," he said, dropping even the pretence of a smile. "We're both well aware that the story about witness protection in America was just that—a story."

His brother sighed down at the underground grids across his lap, making an act of sounding annoyed at Mycroft's continuation of the topic, but Mycroft knew that if Sherlock genuinely had no stakes in the matter he would have inquired about her actual fate out of simple curiosity. And he should have known that; this was sloppy and suggested to Mycroft that Sherlock had still not ridden himself of his contemptible weakness for the woman.

"I repeat," Sherlock said, "your point in mentioning this is...?"

"I think you know."

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft as if he were a disgusting lab specimen, except that Mycroft knew for a fact that even putrefying flesh was accorded with more respect by his brother. After a moment Sherlock looked away, concluding, "You're being tiresome, you can see yourself out now."

"I'm also well aware of how she survived," Mycroft added, firmly holding his ground.

Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second; too infinitesimal for most people to even notice, but to Mycroft it betrayed that Sherlock was starting to realise the seriousness of the matter, and was firming up his defenses.

"What does it matter how she managed it?" he asked dismissively, still trying to seem cavalier. "It's not any sort of revelation that she's exceedingly cunning."

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft raised his voice. "I mean that I know you rescued her in Pakistan and arranged for her to have an alternative identity." He paused, then continued, "I know everything."

_And then even more than you can fathom, on top of that, _he added to himself.

When he looked up, his brother was staring at him again, but if Sherlock's face had betrayed any chagrin at Mycroft's statement, Mycroft had missed it. It was now shrewd and assessing once more.

"So?" he finally asked, defiant.

He wasn't denying it or playing ignorant, which was a promising start, Mycroft supposed, but he also was obviously feeling far too self-assured and confident for Mycroft's liking.

_Better throw him off, then_, he thought.

"_Did you have an affair with her_?" he demanded, suddenly attacking with the volume and assertiveness of a Crown Prosecutor, hoping to unnerve Sherlock both with the question itself, and his abrupt increase in intensity. Since Mycroft knew the answer, it was mostly a device to give him the edge.

It seemed to work. Sherlock actually blinked in surprise at such a frank question, but soon his eyes narrowed dangerously and a faint flush came into his cheeks. Mycroft thought he could detect outrage, indignation, and something akin to embarrassment, and though he felt distaste for it, he was fascinated as well. It was an expression he had never before seen on Sherlock's face. Outrage, yes, indignation, _frequently_, but never this brand of embarrassment, and it was quite a turn from the arrogance he had displayed only moments before.

"I was under the impression that you thought sex alarmed me," Sherlock said, his brows knitting together in anger.

"Where the Adler woman is concerned, I have no idea of what you are capable," Mycroft retorted in an arch tone. "Anything, it seems."

"Correction, you have no idea of what you're _saying_," Sherlock hissed. "Good-bye."

He raised the heavy open book in front of his face to emphasise the dismissal.

"Oh, but I do," Mycroft contradicted, his voice an icy purr. Still, he chose his next words prudently, careful not to reveal too much. "Despite your best efforts, I've learned all about your little adventure in Karachi. Fun for you, I bet. You always did want to be a pirate..."

He looked up from twirling his umbrella handle between his fingers to see that the folio had dropped back onto his brother's lap, and that he had gone very rigid; his eyes burned into Mycroft's and his face was as set and hard as carved alabaster.

Mycroft started to turn as if he were going to leave, then paused and added with a pained expression, "I ask you though, Sherlock. _Her_. It's ever so clichéd."

He meant his words, but they were also calculated. Whether arrogant or outraged, Sherlock was obviously still invested in what had happened in Karachi over two years before, beyond simply wanting to ensure that his achievement was not compromised. Mycroft's impression had been accurate: incomprehensible as it was, his brother was still experiencing lingering sentiment for Ms. Adler. And though it probably increased Sherlock's desire to protect her and her new identity, it also made him significantly more vulnerable...

If Mycroft spoke disparagingly of her as he just had, it would catch Sherlock where he was most susceptible, which might cause him react irrationally, lash out, and give away more than he might otherwise. In Mycroft's work he frequently encountered men and women covering for significant others during questioning, and the particular strategy of vilifying that loved one often yielded results. People would rush to heatedly correct him, and wind up revealing too much.

Still, a part of Mycroft utterly hated this, hated manipulating his brother's sole weakness for his own gain and approaching him like all those other ordinary men and women. And all the while he knew the full truth and weight of the situation, while keeping his brother—the infant's own father—in the dark. He knew that it was ultimately for the best, at least for now (although he cringed at the horrific falling out that was sure to occur when Sherlock finally discovered the truth), but it still made him feel rather wretched, and it certainly intensified his resentment towards Ms. Adler.

"_I didn't_—" Sherlock continued to refute, his tone defensive, and as heated as his face.

Ah, so he was still going to disavow it all, rather than rush to her defense, Mycroft thought. Though it didn't help Mycroft's cause, he was still somewhat relieved that Sherlock wasn't so readily falling for the trap—he was still reassuringly less malleable than all those other people, weakened by sentiment though he was.

Perhaps it was because part of him actually agreed with Mycroft about it being an ill-advised cliché, in spite of his apparent helplessness to do anything about it.

"Please, your denials insult the intelligence of us both," Mycroft interrupted evenly, although he was aware of how close he was veering towards dangerous territory now. He needed to antagonise his brother just enough, yes (something he wasn't finding difficult at the moment), but he also wanted to avoid drawing any attention to his informant. He loathed to consider how much the already unstable situation would escalate should Sherlock discover that Irene Adler had been the one to reveal everything to Mycroft.

And so he diverted attention onto himself, remarking, "It's obvious; I can see your infatuation and your consequent acts with Irene Adler written all over you. Every time I speak her name you indicate at least four various physiological responses."

Sherlock scowled, the only movement in his otherwise unyielding expression and posture. "Leave it, Mycroft," he said through gritted teeth. Then to Mycroft's surprise his eyes lowered, and he added in an uncharacteristically subdued but emphatic tone, "It's over and done with, so what does it _matter_?"

"I wish that I _could _'leave it,'" Mycroft said, as if ignoring the second part of Sherlock's statement, though nothing could have been further from the truth. The words themselves were telling enough—it was Sherlock's first actual admission of any involvement. However, while he could have been referring only to the operation itself, his tone made it clear he was speaking of something much more personal, and Mycroft wanted to devote time to explore that separately.

"Believe me, there's little I'd rather imagine less than you and her..." He shuddered delicately, and it wasn't entirely in theatrical effect. "But the fact is, you're practically broadcasting it. I confess myself disappointed that I didn't notice it before."

Sherlock remained stock-still, his mouth set into a firm line. The light coming in at an angle from the windows cut a hard slant against his face so that his cheekbones stood out even more prominently, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock might present a rather intimidating figure to others, but all he saw was his little brother in a pouty strop—the kind that had him chucking bits of his dinner at Mycroft when they were children. There were much more critical concerns at hand than his fractured pride and overly-prolonged sentiment.

"I now see it was a mistake on my part, not to discuss the Karachi incident with you directly," he went on, ignoring the thunderous expression on Sherlock's face. "I felt it sufficient to speak with John Watson about the matter, but I overestimated your loyalty to your flatmate over Irene Adler, I suppose."

"It had _nothing to do with_—" Sherlock started in fury, then seemed to catch himself, and clamped his mouth shut.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, but then continued. "As I was about to say, I took his lack of knowledge as confirmation that you weren't involved. But even after all your meticulous scheming and secrecy, your body language would have given you away in an instant. That would've been ironically fitting in this particular instance though, wouldn't it have? Presumably the one time you had decided to indulge in the physical, and it would've ended up betraying all your finest brainwork. But no, luckily for you I was trying to spare you the knowledge of her death, trying to be a good brother. As always."

This seemed to be the last straw for Sherlock.

"Get – out," he snarled with barely suppressed fury.

Mycroft fixed his brother with a probing stare, still ignoring his orders to leave. He was far from done.

"'_Over and done with_,'" he quoted softly instead, now returning to Sherlock's unintentional but informative moment of candor. "So I take it that means you're not in communication?"

Based on Ms. Adler's note he had judged as much, but Sherlock's reaction to Mycroft's intentional provocation had confirmed it. And now Sherlock was staring directly ahead, but Mycroft could see some sort of foreign emotion burning in his eyes.

"Do you at least know her current location?" he pressed.

His brother only responded by tightening his lips further, but his unhappy, resentful look was sufficient for Mycroft. It appeared that he did not.

Mycroft swallowed down his frustration—moments before he had thought they might finally be getting close to some sort of revealing tantrum, but if Sherlock's genuinely didn't know anything relevant, it didn't matter how proficient Mycroft's interrogation skills were. He had agonised for weeks over whether to take this risk, and now Sherlock appeared to know even less than Mycroft.

It was entirely possible that although Ms. Adler had accepted Sherlock's help and slept with him over a year and a half ago, she now no longer returned any sentiment, and was 'done' with 'Junior' once more. But that would be a foolish thread to pull; if he wanted Sherlock to be any use at all, he needed to prevent him from feeling any self-pity and bitterness, which were both paralytics.

"Very well," he said, turning to the one tangible piece of intelligence he _could _discuss with Sherlock, "but I do know that you obtained for her a new name, so you are aware of her alias. What was it?"

He watched his brother expectantly, but Sherlock maintained a stony, insolent silence, his eyes boring holes into the wall behind Mycroft's shoulder.

"I see," Mycroft said softly, feeling genuine dismay at Sherlock's lack of cooperation, even though he had expected it. "My own brother, willfully harbouring a traitor."

Sherlock leaned forward, letting the folio slide off his lap and thud onto the floor. "_Piss off_," he hissed, his eyes flinty.

Mycroft _tsk_ed ironically and raised a brow. "Language, little brother."

But he knew that Sherlock rarely swore even this mildly; Mycroft was obviously hitting a nerve, and it was more than simply a reaction to Mycroft trying to get something out of him that he didn't want to share. Sherlock was obviously growing more anxious for Ms. Adler's future safety and security, and if Mycroft played the situation exactly right, he might be able to compel Sherlock to search for her himself.

In terms of risk he was in for a penny, in for a pound at this point, and tracking Sherlock to her location seemed the last viable solution, unless he wanted to revert to total passivity, which he no longer considered an option.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, and finally deigned to make eye contact with his brother again, although it was hard and begrudging. "She'll have long since changed it," he said, "so there's no point in my telling you."

"Don't act obtuse," Mycroft spoke over him. "We could track that alias and it could lead to what the other is." Though he now recognised that Sherlock wouldn't give up her new identity, he might as well further emphasise the threat to Ms. Adler.

"Ah!" Sherlock perked up sarcastically, and Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Well by that logic, your knowledge of the name 'Irene Adler' should be sufficient to lead you to her current alias, no help from me required. Which is convenient for you, since none is being—or _will be_—offered. So off you go, have at it." He made what Mycroft considered an excessively obnoxious shooing gesture, although Mycroft could see the pulse in his carotid artery jumping erratically.

"Yes, Sherlock. I will 'have at it.' And despite your deplorable lack of loyalty, I will _find_ her... You can't fool Big Brother forever," Mycroft said in a low and silky but dangerous tone, and he knew Sherlock understood the double, and equally true, meanings.

But still, he didn't make a move towards the door, and the brothers settled into a tense standoff. Under Mycroft's relentless scrutiny, Sherlock begin to struggle even more to maintain his composure: the muscles in Sherlock's arms flexed as his fingers dug into the soft leather of the chair's arms, his face began to flush even darker, his breathing became more erratic, and his mouth began to twist into an even deeper scowl of anger and resentment.

As much as it pained him to see his brother so affected, it also meant his victory. There was no doubt in his mind: Sherlock would be on a flight or train before dawn.

Just as he decided to take his leave, his loathsome work done, he heard Sherlock's flatmate enter the drawing room, and Sherlock reacted with obvious relief, straightening slightly out of his aggressive lean forward. Perhaps he thought Mycroft wouldn't be willing to discuss the Irene Adler matter in front of John, and therefore he was off the hook. Little did he realise that he had only just placed himself _on _that hook.

"I was sleeping, but I heard some sort of commotion down here. Everything all right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, then all but growled, "my brother was just leaving. Say goodbye, John." Still, his aggressive eye contact with Mycroft never wavered.

John assessed the pair of them with his characteristic blend of bemusement and curiosity, but said nothing.

For a fraction of a second Mycroft was tempted to spin towards John, announce something along the lines of, _"I'm sorry to inform you that apparently Sherlock saved Irene's life, and all evidence indicates that he fell in love with her in the process. He then lied to both of us by omission about his involvement. What do you think of that?_" and then quit the flat and leave Sherlock to deal with all the fallout.

Sherlock's suddenly anxious face made it all the more tempting.

But no, that was a childish impulse, and he wanted Sherlock to spend his energy on starting to seek out Irene Adler, not fencing questions from his angry flatmate about his deception. Besides, it was obvious that making Sherlock confront the reality of his ongoing sentiment for Ms. Adler was punishment enough for someone like his brother.

"Um," John said from the doorway, "I'm going to go make some chamomile tea, then, since I'm up..."

Though Mycroft knew—and knew _Sherlock _knew—that John was using this as an excuse to keep an eye on them, neither brother acknowledged him; they were still locked in a battle of wills.

Finally, after enough time had passed that Mycroft felt his point was made and his trap laid, he did as he was bidden, but slowly and with great dignity.

"Good-bye, Sherlock," he said to his brother, who only looked away and pursed his lips more tightly in response. "John," Mycroft added, in his most civilised tone.

"'Night," John answered from the kitchen, though his eyes were glued on Sherlock, and his face was filled with concern.

Mycroft gave one more perfunctory smile and headed for the flat door, knowing that by the time the front door shut behind him, Sherlock would already be making his preparations.

* * *

As his car sped northwest on Park Road towards St. John's Wood, Mycroft had to admit that despite the innumerable tense confrontations he'd experienced with his younger brother over the years, this one had left him feeling particularly shaken.

More than anything he was torn, which was a sensation he had rarely felt before this whole matter had developed, and which he loathed. On one hand he hadn't been prepared for how much Sherlock still cared for Irene Adler; as he had already determined, it clearly went further than wanting to protect a successful mission and involved deep sentiment for the woman, which was quite troubling.

But on the other hand, the strength of Sherlock's feelings gave an advantage to Mycroft, the first one he'd enjoyed since this wretched business began. Mycroft felt confident that he had been able to leverage those feelings into Sherlock now assuming the role of Ms. Adler's seeker. He could simply assign one of his people—perhaps his aide, even—to covertly trail his brother, which would spare Mycroft all the fuss and exertion of the task himself, and allow him to focus in where his country desperately needed him: the UK/EU referendum.

Still, he wasn't without significant unease about the motions he had set into place. As his own brother had stated himself, love was exceptionally dangerous, and it was a weapon Ms. Adler had wielded against Sherlock in the past with devastating results.

...And that had been before she was also the mother of his child.

Moreover (and speaking of the child), as good at confounding Sherlock as Ms. Adler had proven, it would be quite a challenge to erase _all_ evidence of an infant, if Mycroft's memories of Sherlock's babyhood served. Not to mention there would be certain physical changes Sherlock could potentially observe, especially since he would be able to directly compare... Mycroft grimaced with distaste again.

And hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles was, as ever, the potential that Ms. Adler would expose him in retribution for that discovery, when she had explicitly told Mycoft that Sherlock wasn't to know.

Because although she would be quite adversely affected by his fall as well, he still wasn't _entirely _certain that she wasn't the scorpion of the old story after all...


	4. Toska

**Lots of dense background and angst in this chapter, fair warning ;)**

* * *

_**Toska**_

The instant he heard the front door latch shut, Sherlock leapt from his chair and strode to the window. Pushing aside the curtain, he watched Mycroft slide into his car and then waited for it to turn out of sight onto Melcombe Street, before he spun on the spot and made a beeline for his laptop.

"What was that all about?" John called from the kitchen, over the sound of the kettle starting to boil.

"Just Mycroft being Mycroft," Sherlock responded in an offhand tone, although his heart was racing and he could even detect a very slight tremor in his voice. "You know how is when he tries to coerce me into doing something for him."

"Mmmm, and I know how _you _are when you can't be arsed," John retorted drily, but without any actual rancor. "Put the two together and raised voices—inevitable. Got it."

But now that Sherlock had temporarily appeased John with a reply, he was barely listening, and as he jabbed at the power button and waited for the computer to boot up, his mind churned with dozens of ideas on how to proceed, and the nascent formulations of a plan. Yet just below his rational and coherent thought process—and vying for dominance—surged pure, primal adrenaline.

He hadn't heard the name 'Irene Adler' spoken aloud since prior to his fall and exile, when John had parroted to him the lie about her going to America, and hearing it again now, particularly so very unexpectedly, had incited a potent and all too familiar reaction in him.

Mycroft had been correct about Sherlock broadcasting the truth of his sentiments though physiological indicators: to his horror he had felt his face heat and his heart accelerate into a pounding arrhythmia in response to hearing the name by which he had originally known The Woman, and he hadn't been able to modify his expression into even the semblance of a poker face, let alone regain his composure.

He had been quite staggered by the force of his reaction, and what it revealed about the ongoing nature of his feelings towards The Woman—feelings that somehow persisted despite his resolve to... not _delete_ what had happened between them, but at least to view that time with academic detachment ...To distill what he had learned and use that knowledge when applicable, while suppressing the associated emotions that served no function other than to distract and disconcert him. And though he had already known that he hadn't really achieved that objective, neither had he been prepared for _quite _the strength of feeling that had pulsed through him the instant Mycroft had spoken that name.

As if that experience hadn't been dismaying enough in and of itself, it had occurred in the immediate presence of his elder brother, thereby forcing Sherlock to reveal a rather personal and humiliating weakness to Mycroft. This inadvertent disclosure was more than just mortifying—it also put him at a dangerous disadvantage. It wouldn't be a question of if, but only of _when_ and _how_, Mycroft would leverage Sherlock's weakness against him in some way, and Sherlock had only himself to blame for his predicament.

His mouth pulled into a reflexive scowl and he jerked his head sharply, as if he could physically jostle his thoughts back into approved order.

It took an uncomfortable moment of effort, and then a slew of thoughts burst forth in a disjointed tumble, as if they had been welling up behind a dam while he'd considered the more distasteful aspects of his situation. Nonetheless, he was able to quickly identify the most critical issue. Though he would eventually like to know precisely how Mycroft had learned of his little trip to Pakistan, practically speaking it was a low priority at present. Far more significant was the fact that Mycroft still wasn't privy to Irene Adler's location. For the timebeing, Sherlock's efforts (and therefore The Woman) were uncompromised.

Sherlock could tell that when his brother had asked him if he knew her current whereabouts, Mycroft had interpreted his expression as an admission that he didn't have such information. And though it had partly been a deliberate obfuscation on his part, it was true that he wasn't entirely certain...

All he had was the postcard.

Besides Sherlock's continuing sentiment for The Woman, another correct conclusion that Mycroft had drawn was that when Sherlock had rescued the former Ms. Adler in, and then exfiltrated her _from _Karachi, he had furnished her with a new identity. But Sherlock hadn't stopped there. Even with an alternate identity, if there were no supplemental framework to legitimise and protect it she would remain almost as vulnerable as she had prior to her capture. Because he was unwilling to see his hard work in Karachi be for naught (and, admittedly, for other more nebulous and personal reasons), he had also provided her with a small apartment and a bank account consisting of funds that he had managed to transfer from her Zurich account through complex and somewhat criminal means. However he had subsequently learned that she'd never taken residence in the flat, and shortly thereafter he'd discovered that the Chase account he'd opened had been drained as well.

For a while he had tried his hand at locating her remotely—_as a purely cerebral exercise_, he had assured himself, although he knew full well that it was more—but all signs indicated that she had indeed changed her identity yet again. And unlike the Karachi episode, it had appeared that on this occasion she had not wanted to be found by him, because he'd had as little success then as Mycroft was apparently having, now.

Not that he had had much of an opportunity to do the search justice, not really. Not so very long after he had returned from Asia, everything even slightly peripheral in his life fell by the wayside as his singular focus on Jim Moriarty and Moriarty's "Final Problem" consumed all. And then he himself had been consumed.

By the time he had realised _how _The Final Problem was to manifest, and therefore what a great resource The Woman would have proven in the demanding months that lay in store for him, time was far too short to do anything but plan for his bare survival.

Then, once he was ostensibly dead (and absolutely disgraced), he hadn't the time, resources, nor luxury of looking for her, as invaluable an asset as she might have been in the long-term. He couldn't afford to think in units of time any longer in duration than several days, and any energy he spent seeking individuals had to be exclusively devoted to locating the underbosses and caporegimes of Moriarty's still-viable network.

Conversely, neither could he risk disseminating any clues about his own whereabouts so that she might find him when she heard of his "suicide," in case those clues were seen and correctly interpreted by the very men and women he was trying to stalk under the cover of his death. Not that he had had any expectations that she would choose to contact him, after she had severed any and all ties that had connected them after they had parted ways in Oman. Still, that awareness didn't prevent him from hoping for precisely that—and not solely due to the facts that her knowledge of Moriarty and her skill at manipulation and deceit would aid in the work.

Because although he had initially been confident that he would not just cope but _thrive _under the challenging conditions of absolute solitude and relentless mental and physical exertion, after only several weeks he'd begun to feel its weight, and the cost of his lot. At the beginning, he had been completely consumed with the operation, fueled by the challenge posed by the enormity of his task, as well as not a small bit of fury and desire for recompense. However, Sherlock had soon learned that no matter how extreme a situation may seem at the outset, one might eventually acclimatise, and as he did so his fury had begun to shift into something much worse—deep loneliness and an increased apathy towards his mission.

He had missed the flat and being able to play his violin, as well as inexplicable, small things such as his tartan dressing gown, or the terrible PG Tips tea John would make, or the feel of his Kimex beaker in his hand. And he had fiercely yearned for London, less as a physical place on a map than as the embodiment of an idyll—one with limitations and infinite possibility, horror and wonder, challenge and reward... His personal Arcadia, and a representation of all that was deprived to him.

But mostly, to his shock and unease, he'd found that once he was forced by circumstance into isolation, he missed _people_. Besides The Woman, he had particularly craved being able to speak with John whenever he needed to 'talk out' a theory or problem, and as with Irene it was more than just the practical he had missed... On a number of occasions a random word or fragment of strangers' conversation had triggered the memory of something John Watson had once said, and comments that Sherlock had previously taken for granted came to become tokens of comfort to which he clung. And though they reminded him of all that he had sacrificed and left behind, they were also powerful incentives to continue.

Steadily Sherlock's original objective of destroying Moriarty's network evolved into the _means _by which he would get what he really wanted. He had stopped plotting out intricate strategies (bordering on revenge fantasies, he had to admit) on how he was going to destroy the criminal legacy Moriarty had left behind, and had begun to view the task as a mere—though potentially deadly—obligation. He'd understood his duty, and he would perform it proficiently, without reservation, and to its conclusion, but only because it would finally end his banishment.

But until then his exile would go on, and he hadn't been certain of how long the sentence would last. He had often thought that a span of years not only seemed possible, but likely. And sometimes, at his darkest moments (after a devastating setback, or when he hadn't spoken to a single person for days, or when something had particularly reminded him of home), he had convinced himself that he would never finish the work, and that he would have to remain forever an outcast. That it was impossible for one man, no matter how driven, resourceful, and clever, to take on such a layered, entrenched, and international network.

Those had been times he had mostly keenly, almost desperately yearned for Irene Adler. Unlike his friends and other allies, she wouldn't have been endangered by their contact, at least not in and of itself, and he could easily imagine her adapting to the trials of such a dangerous and transitory existence. 'Death' had condemned them both to be refugees from their old lives and former selves, but it also could have protected them, and connected them...

Granted, he'd had no doubt that she would've proven an immense asset to the work itself, but in those moments it was clear that he was longing for something else, something he had never really experienced before: personal consolation through another person. _Comfort, closeness, intimacy_. Not only sex, although he hadn't been able to deny that that was certainly part of it. He could recall the few times they'd had intercourse in the finest detail possible for being so preoccupied, and the idea of sharing such intense physical closeness after so many long months of solitude was incredibly alluring. But it was more than that. If it had been about only physical closeness and release, he could have engaged the services of a prostitute or 'pulled' someone in a club, and those ideas were so alien and unappealing to him that he would accept the crushing loneliness rather than indulge in either of those options.

No, it had been _her_ he'd wanted: her body, admittedly yes, but more so her mind and the simultaneously affirming, challenging, and exhilarating dynamic between them. To his annoyance, he had had some difficulty readjusting to a strictly nonsensual life when he had returned to Karachi, but the extremity of his exile only magnified and intensified what he had already been feeling, and at points it felt almost unbearable. To cope, he had begun to invent entire conversations with her, about everything from the repulsive condition of a hostel's sheets to the vulnerabilities of the underboss he was stalking at that time (smoking habit; Sherlock could confront the man alone as he stepped out for a smoke, into the secluded alley behind the unlicensed casino he operated). But his running commentaries were a poor replacement, and they only served to accentuate his solitude. He had never been able to quite capture her voice—his impersonation lacked the vitality and flirtatious defiance of the real Irene Adler.

They never did reunite in death. He had remained the lone predator, facing interminable months of ever-increasing danger and difficulty in eradicating Moriarty's syndicate, one shot-caller at a time. Sometimes he would tip off the local or state police as to the person's location if he or she were a fugitive; in the absence of any sort of outstanding warrant, he would find evidence that would lead to a direct arrest. Occasionally, when opportunity allowed for it and he felt particularly repulsed by a mark, he would just turn the person over to a rival criminal faction and let the chips fall where they may.

That violence-by-proxy had been the extent of his own brutality, since he had never been compelled to use deadly force. His advanced planning was careful, informed, and detailed, and so in the critical moments of confrontation, he had never encountered any variables that he had not at first anticipated—variables which might have necessitated the use of his weapon. Nonetheless, his first step in each country he'd entered had been to obtain a firearm, and he had mentally prepared himself for the eventuality of having to take a life to such a degree that—to his later distaste—he had almost longed for a reason pull the trigger, just to end the unbearable psychological suspense of what it would be like.

But as the long months, extreme loneliness, and often squalid lifestyle continued to wear on Sherlock, he came to believe with irrational fervour that if he were to ever take a life, the bullet would be reserved for the most important target on his list: Jim Moriarty's second-in-command and chief confidante, Colonel Sebastian Moran.

The name hadn't been familiar to him prior to the undertaking of his mission, but the more Sherlock had learned about him, the more Colonel Moran had grown to represent everything that Sherlock sought to destroy. The man wasn't Moriarty himself, but as Jim's first lieutenant he was the next best thing.

Besides, he had done plenty on his own to rekindle Sherlock's desire for revenge. According to Sherlock's intel, he was the man who had physically strapped Semtex around John at the pool, and he had been at least one of the riflemen who had threatened the two of them on that same night. Sherlock had also suspected that Moran had been one of the snipers commanded to kill John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if Sherlock failed to jump from St. Bart's, and was very likely the one whose sights had been trained on John. Moriarty had seemed to appreciate that type of symmetry and elegance.

However Moran had proven exceptionally difficult to trace, and none of the underbosses Sherlock had apprehended had seemed privileged with any information on his location. Even when Sherlock had promised (lied) that he would release the person in exchange for information on Moran's whereabouts, Sherlock had gleaned nothing of use to track him down—he had only been given additional reasons why the man needed to be eliminated.

Unfortunately, while each removal of an underboss had brought Sherlock a step closer to his ultimate goal, and had provided him with an opportunity ask additional questions about Moran, it had also made it ever more blatant to the outstanding leadership that someone was methodically dismantling Moriarty's web, which had made his task increasingly more difficult.

Still, scant or ambiguous as the evidence in his possession had been, it was sufficient enough for him, and after nine months and four weeks, his determination had resulted in the neutralisation of all of Moriarty's remaining commanders, barring two: Moran, and a chav named Neil "Bozzy" Bosworth whose prodigious counterfeiting skills had elevated him through the ranks of Moriarty's organisation. And while Sherlock had found reliable evidence regarding the location of Bosworth, he had still not discovered even the hint of a lead regarding Moran, and had been all too cognisant of the fact that unless Bosworth knew anything, Sherlock potentially faced a vacuum of data, which would mean an indefinite exile.

In facing such adversity he again found solace in thinking about The Woman, and he had come to the conclusion that if he did reach an impasse in his work, he would invest his energy and brainpower into locating her instead. Perhaps she would know something about Moran and his potential location... or perhaps not. But either way, it would be something tangible on which he could focus—something which offered the potential of a more promising future than an interminable life of solitude in search of a single fugitive whom he had never met.

However, three days shy of the ten-month anniversary of his 'suicide', Sherlock's mission had come to an abrupt and unanticipated end, ruling out any need for contingency plans.

His pursuit of Bosworth had returned him to England, where he had been able to ambush the young man at his aunt's council flat in Hartcliffe, Bristol. Bosworth, perhaps because he was English and therefore was more familiar with how Sherlock looked due to his media coverage the previous year, had appearred gobsmacked when he had realised that Sherlock had been behind the annihilation of the crime syndicate, since the entire network had believed him dead as a result of Jim's manipulations. It had been intensely gratifying to Sherlock to know that the deception of his suicide had remained intact—but not as gratifying as Bosworth's keen nod when Sherlock asked him if he were willing to trade any information about the whereabouts of Colonel Sebastian Moran for his freedom.

However, he hadn't been prepared for Bosworth's next words: "Izzat the geezer you've been after this whole time? I hate to break it to you, bruv, only Moran's dead..."

According to Bosworth, Moriarty's most trusted associate had been killed in a bare-knuckles brawl over dogfight winnings in the Black Country only several days prior. And though it had been quite anticlimactic, and Sherlock had been disappointed that he had not been directly responsible for the final ruin of Moriarty's legacy, he _had_ taken dark pleasure in the barbarous nature of the man's death. Besides, it had meant that he could finally return home, which—after turning Bosworth over to the Avon and Somerset Constabulatory, and then taking several days to investigate Moran's death until he was satisfied that it was legitimate—he did.

And though home was almost all that he had wanted for almost the entire duration of his 'death' (home—and The Woman), he had found the transition exceptionally hard. Difficult as his unstable and perilous life abroad had been, he had become somewhat accustomed to its rhythm and demands, and it was challenging to reenter into his old life. He knew consciously that there had once been such a thing as normalcy for him (well, his own unique brand of normalcy), but he hadn't been able to recall what that had entailed, let alone put it into practice.

He had almost welcomed the tension wrought by his emotional and contentious reunion with John; it had given him a valid reason to feel wrong-footed and vaguely bereaved when he should have felt relieved that his great hiatus was finally over. But frankly, he had felt very little relief, even despite the fact that not much had changed for him on the macro level. His flat was still available to him and remained a share with John, his room had been left relatively untouched, and his friends were all safe.

Since the external factor of 'home' hadn't changed significantly, Sherlock had come to realise that the shift was primarily internal... Being back again, amongst his tailored suits and insects enclosed in glass and books and collection of chemicals, forced him to acknowledge that he wasn't the same man he had been when he had last stood between the walls of his flat. A shift that began when he left for Karachi had continued its progression, and he had found that he could barely recognise himself. And so, even though he was technically Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, NW1 once again, that was of little consolation in the face of his burgeoning identity crisis. Throughout that time, particularly during his sleepless nights, his mind had still turned to The Woman, the ghost of his yearning lingering despite his return to a life that could never realistically accommodate her.

He had often wondered if she would get in touch with him since he was back in his own flat and she therefore knew how to contact him. However, as weeks passed and there was still no communication from the late Irene Adler, he had become increasingly more disillusioned, and it had felt as if he were slowly surfacing to consciousness from a dream. He had started to realise that the reunion he had imagined between himself and The Woman had been an infantile fantasy, and that while it was perhaps permissible during the hardship of his time away (_somewhat; grudgingly_), it was an entirely inappropriate diversion while he was attempting to rebuild his life and reputation. And rebuild he _must_.

In fact, as he did finally begin to reacclimatise to his former life, the breadth and depth of the need he had felt during his 'death' had eventually come to seriously unnerve and appall him, and as much as he had yearned for her during that time, he was correspondingly even more grateful that they had never reunited. He would have approached her as a diminished and desperate man—a shadow of his former self—and the results would have been pathetic and degrading to the extreme. Moreover, in his state he would have been incredibly vulnerable to her, and as much as he admired her, and as proficient a team as they had made in Karachi, he still didn't entirely trust her. Or perhaps it was that he didn't trust _himself _with her...

Either way, he had resolved that he would not look for her again, and should he perchance ever see her, he would have to ensure that he was in a position of not only not needing her, but preferably not even wanting her. Any position weaker than that would cede too much power to her (and to sentiment), and threaten to push him into the abyss of emotion once again. At best the fallout would be like the aftermath of their interlude in Karachi; at worst, like the majority of 2012. Or perhaps worse even than that, he thought, as horrifying as the idea was.

And then just over one month after his resurrection—as if she could sense her hold over him diminishing slightly—he had received a postcard from America.

It was John who had brought it to his attention, which was fortunate (or perhaps just the reverse) because otherwise it might have sat languishing for ages, only to eventually be swept into the recycle bin during one of Mrs. Hudson's occasional purges.

But instead John had seen and been charmed by it, remarking that it looked to be a kid from the handwriting and spelling, and then reading it aloud.

_Dear Mr. Sharlock Holmes, I was always a believor in you and I was very sad when it seemed you were dead for 11 months, But now that you're back I admire you evenmore.  
Yours,  
Terri Womera._

At first Sherlock had taken little interest except to correct an error, interjecting in a bored voice, "It wasn't eleven months, it was ten. Not such a fan then, clearly." But then when John had read the name, his mind had jolted to attention, stimulated by something he couldn't immediately place. Almost simultaneous to this reaction, his body had been flooded with adrenaline, as if his limbic system had known why he was reacting in such a way before his brain could interpret it. That primal response should have been the tell...

Still, he'd feigned indifference—until John had left the room, at which point he almost tripped over his own feet to snatch the postcard off the table and stare at the signature.

_Terri Womera_. Of course. It was almost a homophone to her former professional name, plus the last letters were her former initials, and 'Womera' was promoted as the female alternative to Viagra, so there was a reference to sex. . .

Once he had established with some confidence that it was The Woman who had sent it to him, he had voraciously skimmed the rest of the coded message, and had deciphered its meaning in less than three seconds.

First she had written his name with an 'A' instead of an 'E,' which was followed by putting an 'O' where there should have been an 'E' in 'believer.' _Then the number eleven. Why eleven?_ It seemed rather arbitrary, but he knew that neither that nor any of the other apparent errors were anything but deliberate. In the next clause there was a capitalised letter after a comma, and 'evenmore' formed one word. _Two Es in a row, two Es missing from their proper places twice before, he had thought. So just replace the first E with an A and the second E with an O. Avonmore. Eleven B Avonmore. Simple, but clever._

He had then turned to his preferred search engine, and had discovered that the only 11B Avonmore anything—Avenue, Boulevard, Lane, Road, Street, etcetera—in the world was in Edison, New Jersey, despite the fact that the postcard both depicted and was sent from Baltimore (he had been surprised but wryly amused that she'd opted to reference that debacle). After all the energy he had invested in trying to locate her, the address was less than thirty miles from the apartment he'd originally let.

In an instant, it was as if he had discarded all that he had resolved in the past several weeks pertaining to The Woman, and had become re-consumed by the unprecedented yearning he had felt for her in all those months of grueling solitude: he had logged into his British Airways account and had selected a flight for that evening. He almost certainly would have gone through with it—had John not walked back into the room and startled him out of his almost trance-like state only moments before he processed the order. Instead, he had snapped the lid of his laptop closed without taking the time to shut it down, jumped up from his chair, and gone straight for his coat. After shoving his arms into it and then wrapping his scarf around his throat, he had fled the flat without so much as a word to John, and had taken a long and mind-clearing—though difficult—walk to the river and back. By the time he had returned, he had managed to harden his will against her once more.

And though the pangs of sentiment had returned (almost like Swiss clockwork during times of boredom or adversity, though he likened them more to acid reflux), they were never quite as acute as they had been during his ten months abroad, the weeks immediately thereafter, or the moments directly after he examined her postcard. She was like an addiction from which he was slowly weaning himself—but would never escape entirely. Fortunately he knew how to manage just such a thing: work, and more work, and due to the eventual restoration of his reputation, demand for his skill had almost returned to its previous capacity.

He had kept the postcard, though. He had propped it up on a bookcase next to the fireplace, where it was frequently within his view. Sherlock could tell that John projected his own emotional makeup onto it; his face had softened when he had first seen it there, and he obviously took it as evidence that Sherlock was capable of some depth of feeling after-all, perhaps as a result of his extended exile.

The irony was that John was actually spot-on about the emotions evoked by the postcard, but Sherlock's reasons for actually keeping it could not have been more contrary to what his flatmate believed. Sherlock had held onto the card precisely as a reminder of and a caution against those feelings, using it as a sort of _ad hoc_ chip, similar in function to those he had received during his recovery from stimulants. And despite (or perhaps _due _to) the fact that the postcard was far more provocative than an imitation poker chip since it ostensibly contained her address, it had served as an effective coping mechanism. He had never returned to his online BA cart and completed the booking.

However, tonight he would.

Sherlock glanced up at the postcard with narrowed eyes, and sensed his face flush even more hotly, reflective of both the shame and defiance he felt.

Yes, he was crossing a line he had drawn for himself in the sand, and while it was undeniable that he was experiencing a significant relapse of sentiment that he could only moderate but never delete, it was not that impulse that compelled him to act, but his rational concern for her ongoing welfare. He was responsible for warning her that is brother had discovered Sherlock's actions and therefore her survival, and that obligation had nothing to do with sentimentality or the strange vulnerable need he had felt for her—at least not directly.

And although there was some question of whether the address in the postcard was still valid, it was still a lead of sorts (it was certainly more data than Mycroft possessed, he wagered), and Sherlock intended to pursue it to its conclusion.

* * *

**Phew, now that that's out of the way, we have actual action and progression of plot coming up next ;) Sherlock goes to Amerrrica!**

******"I can't write without a reader. It's precisely like a kiss—you can't do it alone."  
― John Cheever (Thanks to my lovely readers, especially for your patience between updates! Xx)  
**

******_Toska_ is essentially what Sherlock was feeling during much of his 'Great Hiatus' in this story. It's a word from Russian with no English equivalent:  
"No single word in English renders all the shades of 'toska.' At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish... At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul...a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom." -Vladimir Nobokov.**


	5. Departures and Arrivals

**Departures and Arrivals**

Casting one surreptitious glance over his shoulder to confirm that John was still occupied with tea preparations, Sherlock opened his web browser, signed into a virtual private network encryption program, and allocated himself an American ISP address, specifically from the state of Virginia. While the story he was going to concoct was purely meant for John, whom he doubted would know or understand the meaning of the ISP address, perhaps it could also buy Sherlock a critical hour or two with Mycroft. It wouldn't deter his brother for long, but it might provide him with enough time to get to the airport, at least, when his (inevitably) flagged passport would tip his brother off.

John reentered the room just as Sherlock was putting the finishing touches on the message he was submitting to 'The Blog of John Watson,' and he hit 'enter' with a flourish before turning to John with an expression of jubilant and slightly manic anticipation.

He was self-aware enough to know that it was one he might wear in seriousness when first learning of an intriguing new case, although it certainly wasn't much of a stretch now. There was a distinct possibility that he would be seeing the late Irene Adler within twenty-four hours, and the notion made him feel a conflicted blend of giddiness and wariness—the latter to do both with her intentions, and how he would react when in close proximity to her once again.

He also couldn't help but note that at the surface this looked like Karachi all over again: he was seeking out The Woman with only the scant clues that she had intentionally left him, uncertain of her agenda or her regard for him, all while deceiving and evading his brother in order to complete his objective without any oppressive interference from Mycroft. The critical difference was that this time, he went to her as both an investigator and—as foreign and false as it was to articulate the concept in respect to him—a former lover. It shouldn't matter, he didn't _want_ it to matter, and yet it did; it made things even more complex and delicate.

With a slight effort, he focused on John again, and took in a subtle, steadying breath through his nose. As his flatmate set down an unsolicited cup of tea next to him, he opened his mouth to speak, but John cut in first.

"So why can't you help your brother this time?" he asked, sounding shrewd despite his obvious tiredness. "You've got no cases on."

It was true that he wasn't working on an active investigation at the moment, and he briefly wondered if he would be reacting this strongly if he were preoccupied with an especially engrossing case. Would he have been willing to abandon a compelling mystery just to carry the message to The Woman that her 'liberty in death' had been compromised? Even when it was clear that she was in no immediate danger due to the measures she had since taken—measures that were so effective that even Sherlock, who had personally established her most recent alias and bank account, had been unable to find her without overt directions? He understood almost the moment he had even formulated the question that he would, even if the hypothetical case were a 9.5. He grudgingly acknowledged that in terms of intellectual allure, The Woman would always rate a perfect ten.

"Oh but I do," he contradicted with a forced quirk of a smile.

John stared at him for a moment, then smirked faintly. "Convenient, that. So basically, no matter how empty your schedule is, something will somehow crop up the instant Mycroft asks for your help. So what is it this time? Little green men? Irrefutable proof of the Loch Ness Monster? Or something else equally made up?"

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh, but it was more from John's incidental prescience than his sardonic words. "Mm, yes, I'd say any of those hypotheticals would rate higher than helping my brother. And so does this. It's on your blog, I'd have thought you'd have seen it."

"In case you didn't notice, it's a bit late."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly in the equivalent of a shrug, and John sighed.

"No, I didn't see it, obviously. A good one, is it?"

Sherlock's artificial quirk of a smile turned into an equally insincere grin. "Well you've achieved something that every halfwit celebrity strives to accomplish, congratulations!"

"Hm?" John yawned, then blinked and seemed to force himself into greater alertness. "Wait, what are you saying? Halfwit...?"

"You've cracked America! I'm due for the next plane out to Dulles."

Sherlock watched as John blinked again, still struggling from his punctuated sleep. "Erm... my passport is set to expire soon but I think if we wrap things up quickly I should make it under the wire."

"What?" Sherlock cocked his head, narrowing his eyes and momentarily wrong-footed by the image of John accompanying him on this...briefing mission, he supposed it could be called. "Oh. No, I'm going alone."

"No, it's fine," he insisted, oblivious and misunderstanding. "I think I have two weeks or so on it left—that should be enough time, knowing you. If I had three days left it would probably still be—"

"The status of your passport is irrelevant," Sherlock interrupted, now exasperated with John's dedication when he was usually flattered and gratified by it. "I'm going alone."

John's reaction was instantaneous, and predictable.

"You don't need my help on this one?" Trying to sound indifferent, though the crease above his tubercle and the heaviness of his brow gave him away. _Hurt, disappointed_.

Sherlock managed to control his impulse to scowl as he felt himself responding sympathetically, disgusted he should react in such a way when _clearly_ circumstances dictated that he take this trip alone. _Sentiment,_ he thought with exasperation._ Everywhere_.

"I'm afraid not," he said, steeling himself against John's unhappiness, and he was gratified to hear that his voice sounded blunt and unyielding. "It's sensitive and requires the utmost discretion."

"Oh, right then," John nodded, still attempting to feign nonchalance, although now slight anger at the implication put colour in his cheeks. "Strictly 'need-to-know,' then?"

"I'd say so, yes," Sherlock lied, then added, "You can read the message yourself and see."

He had utilised every shred of his scant knowledge of the American political system to pose in the Comments section as an aide to a congresswoman whom 'he' believed corrupt and involved in the disappearances of some key donors in the opposing party; he had concocted it on the spot as a reference of sorts to his brother and The Woman, and he had been rather pleased with the invented scenario, until he heard John's next words.

"Strictly 'need-to-know' and yet they posted it on my blog for all to see?" John retorted, his tone now acerbic, and Sherlock mentally flinched at his unforgiveable lapse in thinking.

_Stupid._ He always seemed to commit some sort of tactical error when The Woman was involved, but it was crucial that he didn't repeat his carelessness—not when from here on out the potential consequences were significantly more grave than a hacked-off flatmate.

"Obviously they assume no one else in America has ever heard of your blog," Sherlock said, shrugging one shoulder as if to say "_Americans_," though he knew it was weak, and John's narrowed eyes confirmed it. "They insisted that only I come," he added.

Drawn brows joined narrowed eyes. "And since when do _you_ pay any attention to client requests?"

Sherlock looked at John, uneasy over the growing measure of suspicion in his voice, but said nothing, and John leaned in, apparently trying another tact, to Sherlock's distinct relief.

"Should I renew it, you know, just in case?" he asked in a conspiring tone.

"Yes," Sherlock responded at once, "But not because you're coming to America with me." He paused, then said for final emphasis, "Because you aren't."

"All right, all right," John's expression dropped and for a moment he eyed the tea next to Sherlock with a glare, as if he wanted to snatch it back. Relatively speaking, Sherlock welcomed the anger he had deliberately goaded—it was far preferable to that knowing suspicion that had seemed to flare a moment before, as well as the hurt he had initially glimpsed. "Are you going to shunt me off to help Mycroft again, then?" John asked, looking sullen.

Sherlock couldn't help an actual crooked smile this time, though there was still little warmth in it. "Not this time, I think. . ."

John's face was thunderous. "I'll just leave you to it then, shall I?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied. He knew John would perceive his tone as dismissive, and to be frank it now was, without being contrived. Sherlock had very little time to reach Heathrow before the only direct flight of the day to Ministro Pistarini Airport departed shortly after dawn, and so every minute was critical.

He picked up the tea and turned back to his laptop, and ignoring John's pointed huff and then his heavy, retreating footsteps, he signed onto his own account on .

He would have liked to use his preferred alias to fly directly to Newark in the interest of time, but he knew it was impossible. If he did so Mycroft would be able to discover with absurd ease the identity that he had protected so fiercely for almost a decade. All he would have to do was locate Sherlock's image on airport CCTV footage (which he would surely be monitoring, after _that_ meeting), and compare it with the passport information of the person who had checked in at the time indicated by the stamp on the video feed.

If he did that, he might as well simply hand over The Woman's postcard, because doing so would lead Mycroft to her location just as surely as the code in the message did, and provide about the same level of (minimal) challenge to his brother.

Neither of those were options.

He switched to an England-based ISP in his VPN program so that his next actions were protected and yet distinct from the signature left by the entry on John's blog, and then searched for Flight 245. Granted, Mycroft would discover Sherlock's intentions the instant he processed through Passport Control at Heathrow, but Sherlock wanted to avoid any potential advance notice, which would enable Mycroft to assign an agent to Sherlock's plane—not that there wasn't a risk of that even without much advanced notice, and he would have to prepare for that eventuality.

Sherlock selected Flight 245, and then skimmed its real-time seat assignment plan, his eyes narrowing. There were over fifteen seats remaining, which meant that he could risk deferring the purchase of his ticket until he arrived at the airport—even better. He had enough Sterling on hand to pay for the ticket in cash and further delay alerting Mycroft as to his destination. Because while it was possible that Mycroft didn't actually monitor his internet usage, he most certainly did have his hands all over Sherlock's financials, and Sherlock expected that Mycroft had even set up some sort of notification system to alert him when Sherlock made large-scale purchases—a flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina, for example...

Argentina was one of the few countries in which his brother didn't have influence or internal access. Oh, Mycroft had been trying to negotiate some sort of relationship for ages, but Sherlock suspected that until the Falklands were back in Argentinean control, his brother was wasting his efforts—not that the country had been particularly friendly towards any British outsiders since Peron, so perhaps it would be futile even then. The thought made him grin, but it was still a hard twist of his lips.

And unlike North Korea, Iran, or other countries in which Mycroft hadn't managed to insinuate his prodigious nose, Sherlock had relatively easy access to Argentina: just one direct flight to Buenos Aires from Heathrow. Out of his brother's jurisdiction he could switch to his alias's passport and purchase tickets on his alias's credit cards to Newark, without fear of Mycroft tracking him through airport CCTV. The indirect journey would be tedious and cost him over eighteen hours, but protecting his cover—and consequently, Irene's—made it worth the time and effort.

Once he had determined his short-term course of action, he pushed away from the table in the drawing room and strode to his bedroom, where he opened his closet, pulled out his ancient Tusting holdall, swiveling and unfastening it with a flick of his wrist so that it landed open on his bed, and then swept several suits from his closet, halved them over his arm, and dumped them inside. Shirts, underwear, and socks followed, topped by one additional pair of shoes, his travel toiletries kit, his international mobile adapter, and a case holding his passport and credit cards, shortly followed by the same documents bearing the surname Sigerson, and his work kit (lock picking tools, luminol swabs, a magnifying glass, forceps, bindles, spare gloves, antiseptic spray, plasters...). Throughout this rote but efficient packing, he wore a fixed, stony expression, and refused to think beyond the immediate implementation of his plan. He had no idea how he would conduct himself once he met The Woman face-to-face again—how he even thought he _should_ conduct himself—but he supposed he had over a full day of air travel to contemplate that, though even that notion set his heart racing.

At the last minute, just as his hand closed around the handle of their flat's door, the manner in which he and John had parted pushed into his mind, and his brow furrowed. He had intentionally angered his flatmate so as to distract him from what seemed like burgeoning suspicion, but now something in him hesitated leaving on such tense terms.

_More damnable sentiment_, he thought darkly, but still he dropped his case to the floor, doubled back, and climbed the stairs two at a time to knock on John's bedroom door. He waited for longer than he cared to spare and still received no answer, which was due either to John's (valid) anger at being left behind, or because he had gone back to sleep. Regardless, Sherlock called a goodbye through the door then turned, only to pause again, his face twisting in a sudden grimace of uncertainty.

It was quite unviable, but a small, slightly panicking part of him regretted that he couldn't dispense with the entire charade and just confide in his friend, despite how it might further (pursuant to the postcard incident) alter John's original opinion of Sherlock: that he was a man of steadfast logic, impervious to the demands and whims of emotion or sex. And it _mattered_ to Sherlock that John maintained that opinion of him—partly due to his own vanity, he had to concede, but mainly because he wouldn't want John to get the impression that this disposition was superficial or a false pretence, because it wasn't. He wasn't concealing a sensitive or amorous heart beneath a superficially stony, stoic exterior as if he were a character out of some awful regency-era novel, for God's sake. It was entirely accurate—with just one exception. A very singular exception.

And though he had been struggling with that anomaly for almost two years, time made it no less confusing or disconcerting, and he understood that if he weren't so constrained by his schedule, it was possible that his present anxiety might have caused him to finally break his silence and overcome the absolute privacy in which he had shrouded the whole affair. It wasn't as if he were adverse to farming out to specialists when his personal knowledge or expertise were lacking, as they certainly were here.

And yet...

As much as Sherlock would value some insight, he also recognised that it was possible—or rather, _probable_—that John was unequipped to help him with this. The woman and his relationship with her consisted of a negative space in his mind, in that he was unable to list or describe positive attributes of their relationship (what it was, its value to him, who they were to each other beyond 'The Woman,' in her case). But by grasping what it was not, he could arrive at a proximate, though very rudimentary, understanding. And it was_ not_ some casual dalliance that had expanded from an initial physical attraction, which differentiated it from all of John's relationship experiences at the very outset.

Not only that: as much as he respected and yes, even cared for his friend, he also understood that whomever he and Irene Adler were to each other, they mutually occupied a plane above the vast majority of other people, populating their own self-enclosed circle in the Venn diagram of humanity. Ironically, and contrary to initial perception, perhaps this was not _John's_ area either. Perhaps only Irene could lay claim to such territory—because if this unclassifiable state were anyone's domain, it would be hers.

An impatient honk from the taxi waiting on the dark street below broke him from his thoughts, and silently he retreated from the door, and turned back towards the stairs.

* * *

He barely registered the cab ride to Heathrow, let alone noticed the rising sun, which at first outlined the trees on either side of the M4 in a thin latticework of neon, and then tinted the predawn landscape a pale unsaturated gold. He was present only in the literal, physical sense. His jaw was set and his eyes were fixed but unseeing; his mind had turned inward, focused on the demands and logistics of his upcoming journey. But not what would happen upon his arrival, not yet... Not beyond simply ensuring that she was safe, and warning her of Mycroft's new intelligence.

Later, obscured by an electronic devices charging tower in the waiting area of Gate 52, his body was taut as an E string as he observed the latecomers boarding across the way—people who might have had to hustle to make the flight after his brother had received an alert that Sherlock Holmes had gone through Passport Control at Terminal 5. So far it was only a pair of OAPs, a Bangladeshi boy in his late teens wearing a kurta, and a harried-looking mother with her three young children. Still, he assessed each of them thoroughly, knowing that to dismiss anyone who may have been mobilised by Mycroft Holmes would be excessively stupid.

He also ignored the ever more urgent calls over the Tannoy for Sherlock Holmes to "please proceed directly to Gate 53, your flight is prepared to depart" until he was certain that the sealing of the gate was imminent and he would be the last one through, at which point he finally approached, and slipped through with a sheepish, apologetic smile to the attendant. He had booked a seat in the final row of the aeroplane, and as he moved through the aisles, he carefully studied the remaining passengers. Still he saw no familiar faces, nor any expressions that betrayed deceit (except for two adulterers going on holiday with each other, but seated in separate rows). Still, it meant nothing, and he committed each of the faces to memory, so as to be on guard for overlap on his next flight. With so many direct connections from London to New York, it would be more than a little suspicious if he shared his next flight with anyone from this one.

The hours on the plane crept by with unbearable slowness, and somewhere roughly over the Canary Islands he realised that in an unpleasant reversal from the taxi ride, he was becoming overly aware of his body, as if the closer he drew to The Woman, the more he was attuned to his physicality. He dismissed the absurd thought with an audible snort, drawing a questioning look from the elderly man beside him, but he couldn't deny that he felt distinctly awkward and restless. The space between his seat and the seat in the row ahead of him was far too cramped to accommodate his legs, but that was always the case during airtravel (with the exception of his brother's Cessna, in which case his discomfort was of an altogether different type), and he had always been able to transcend the physical and turn his focus inward. Now he was strangely uncomfortable in his own skin even more than the claustrophobic conditions warranted.

As if taking a cue from his body, his mind suddenly seized on the question of whether it was likely that they would become intimate again, and though his eyes narrowed in self-rebuke he found himself contemplating the idea with a sort of masochistic curiosity. He would like to credibly assert that he'd remain focused on the matter of her safety, but that had also been his ostensible objective when he had traveled to Pakistan, and, well...

Aside from what precedent suggested, he also had the suspicion that his will was like fatigued metal: once bent into shape it was that much easier to bend and refashion again, yielding along the same lines, and becoming ever weaker and less resistant each time. When that relatively unsensual metaphor began to morph into another, undeniably base thought, he actually growled in aggravation under his breath, and the man to his right gave Sherlock another look of alarm and budged away from him as far as he could manage. Sherlock took no notice of him; he was far too preoccupied with the task of disciplining his mind and distilling his thoughts until only ideas about strategy remained.

After what felt like a ceaseless span of time later, his transfer in Buenos Aires appeared to go as smoothly as he could have hoped. No one from his flight followed him through the connecting flights corridor, nor rejoined him in the Passport Control when he drew out the crimson and gold passport of Norway. Neither did anyone from his portion of the queue appear to follow him to his next gate, although as with Heathrow, he carefully assessed each passenger and made sure to be the last one to board.

At Newark, a Dr. Sigerson passed through Homeland Security without incident, and as he strode out of the airport and into the late afternoon sunshine, he felt the fatique of long-distance plane travel drop away, to be replaced by keen anticipation. Feeling invigorated, he channeled his energies into assessing his surroundings. He determined that the carpark was too removed for someone trailing him to access a car while still keeping tabs on him, the pick-up kerb was also located at a tactically disadvantageous distance, and only one person from his flight had entered the taxi stand with him. When Sherlock saw her cab peel off at a different exit behind his own cab, he allowed himself to slightly relax his level of alertness, but he still felt strangely charged.

* * *

His taxi arrived at 11 Avonmore Avenue as the sun was preparing to set for the third and final time of his interminably long day, and initially he couldn't believe that they had come to the correct location. They had come to a stop in front of an utterly mundane and nondescript mock Tudor apartment building set behind a correspondingly drab and unimpressive lawn, and it was almost impossible to reconcile this boring building on its boring street in its boring city with the woman (_The Woman_) he had last seen on the deck of a ship in the Arabian Sea. If disguise _were_ a self-portrait, he didn't know what this bland place was supposed to say about her, because he could see nothing of the woman he knew here. In fact, it was depressing to even think of her living here; she must have found the sheer ordinariness of it dreadfully oppressive, just as he would have done. What had compelled her to relocate here, he wondered, when he had let a perfectly adequate flat for her in midtown Manhattan—one which appeared in its pictures to share at least some architectural elements with her former home on Eaton Square, in a city that—while no London—seemed at least more tolerable than this remote hamlet.

He abruptly realised that it was possible he would be able to ask her himself, shortly, and the thought sent his pulse into an immediate gallop. He simultaneously felt the long hours and immense distance of his journey behind him, and the tantalising proximity of his objective before of him, and he quickly paid the cabbie, hoisted his bag across his shoulders, and headed up the walk at a barely controlled clip.

In the building's lobby he found that the lift was broken and being serviced by repairmen, but he didn't even break stride as he swiveled on one foot to change direction and make his way towards the stairs. He noted with one glance that contrary to his own building's arrangement, these flats were placed in descending order, and he took the steps two at a time towards the top.

One storey below The Woman's flat he slowed, and then came to a full stop on the landing in front of Apartment C. His breathing was elevated and coming out in low and harsh gasps, and he recognised that it was due to more than the several flights of stairs he had climbed; he was much fitter than that. No, it was mostly a result of the adrenaline coursing through his system, and it didn't take a genius to know why that might be occurring.

He never had let himself consider how he might conduct himself when he saw her again; after his near lapse into base thought he had managed to stay focused on the tangibles elements of his plan, that (1) he would find her at this address, and (2) he would report to her the relevant information. That was the purpose of this journey, he had resolved; anything else was incidental and even potentially detractive.

But the actual moment of reunion had come, and he cursed what he now viewed as procrastination on the planes. He had had nothing but time—hours and hours—to plot an actual strategy that would help him meet this unusual and potentially fraught situation with at least some measure of real confidence. It galled him that even now, after all he had experienced, Mycroft's mocking accusation that sex alarmed him should be the slightest bit accurate. But it was too late to devise some sort of ad hoc plan now; he was far too distracted by the idea that she might be several metres above him, or could even happen upon him in the staircase at any moment. He would have to wing it.

Slowly, he climbed the final flight, doing his best to tamp down the damnable nerves, the exclusive rights of which belonged to the late Irene Adler. He was unsuccessful, and by the time he stood in front of the dull oak veneer door with its imitation brass 'B,' his pulse was thundering through his body.

He contemplated the doorbell. It seemed like such a mundane act, pressing a buzzer, after all they both had done to bring him to this moment, and yet he felt close to balking. It was only the knowledge that despite his best efforts, he might have actually lead Mycroft to her and ironically compromised her safety that caused him to remain and see this through. That, and perhaps that other unquantifiable, chimerical desire that currently simmered just below the surface of his rational mind...

He made another attempt to school his expression into one of neutrality, then reached up and pushed the button, which echoed through the set of rooms on just the other side of the door. He listened closely, and lightly touched his fingertips to the doorframe to feel for vibrations of movement, but everything seemed absolutely still. He remained in that position for six minutes, monitoring breaths that wanted to escalate into gasps again, and trying to listen through the roaring of blood like a tidal wave in his ears. Then, letting out an unsteady exhale that was at least partly one of (_cowardly_) relief, he withdrew the lockpicking kit from within his keepall and bent to his work. Several moments passed, and then the tumblers all fell into place, and with an almost painful lurch of his heart, he gently turned the handle and pushed.

The flat was empty.

Not simply vacant of its occupant, entirely empty: of furniture, carpets, appliances, or anything else at all. If it was even The Woman who had lived here (though despite its mundanity he was certain that she had; there was a very faint scent that seemed to strike a chord of familiarity and strange longing within him), she was gone now.

For a moment he simply stared, his face still as stone as his eyes darted around the empty apartment, and then intense disappointment surged through him. He swore loudly and would have slammed his holdall to the ground if he were still carrying it.

All the meticulous planning on an impossibly narrow timetable, the pointless and stupid guilt over deceiving John, the care and vigilance to avoid his brother's potential agents so as to maintain the integrity of her cover, the absolutely foreign and absurd anxiety over seeing her again, and the equally foreign and absurd spark of... had it been anticipation? pleasure? at that same notion—it was all for naught. He swore again, even more forcefully, but rather than being cathartic, it only made him feel worse. Without furniture or carpeting to muffle his voice, it echoed all around him, literally amplifying the flat's barrenness.

He had been moving constantly towards this minute, forgoing all sleep and food, and forced to confront the distasteful topic of his ongoing sentiments, only to be abruptly and absolutely thwarted. And according to the scratches on the floor that someone had been made when moving out the furniture, he had barely missed her: the freshly gouged wood showed no sign of any oxidation. If he hadn't been forced to route through Argentina, he might have made it in time.

_No, that's not quite right_, he amended a moment later, his lips pursing tightly. It was that he had waited too long to find her, and he felt a bitter pang of regret over his stubbornness, even though he knew that in the aftermath of his time abroad it had been justifiable—maybe even necessary for the sake of his mental wellbeing and the successful reconstruction of his life as a Consulting Detective. Only now it was clear that he had merely traded sacrifices, not avoided one entirely.

For a long time he stood in the deserted, immaculately clean apartment, and because he no longer had anything else to pursue—no leads or clues—he simply tried to understand the life she had lived here, deducing how her furniture had been arranged based on the scuffmarks on the hardwood floors, and the traces of picture frame outlines on the walls. But aside from figuring that she used the second, smaller bedroom as an office judging by the marks of a large and heavy rectangular piece of furniture that was likely a desk (although he didn't see any marks of a corresponding chair—a wheeled swivel model, perhaps? An area rug?), he learned nothing of any real or applicable value. Hell, even that had no real or applicable value.

Just like her person, examining her former home gave him no insight into her, nor made him feel any closer to her. In fact, it did the opposite, and he felt suddenly lonely in this foreign place, to a degree he hadn't experienced since he had been 'dead' himself.

Sherlock felt himself mentally and emotionally recoiling from that memory in the face of this unpleasant surprise, and he attempted to refocus his mental efforts on the essential facts of the situation he had discovered.

She must have learned, somehow, that Mycroft knew that she was alive, and was taking corresponding precaution to maintain her cover. He didn't believe it was a coincidence that she had quit her flat directly after Mycroft had discovered she'd survived Karachi. The question was, how had she found out? Who, besides himself, would be concerned with her safety, and tip her off? He had thought that she'd been forsaken by all her strategic contacts when she'd lost the leverage of her phone, and yet the empty flat suggested that there was more going on than he understood. He was obviously lacking in critical data.

It also suggested to him that even after losing at least the majority of the wealth and presumably all the power she previously wielded, she was fully capable of managing her own deep cover and ongoing safety. And though that concept filled him with a strange blend of intrigue, pride, and even traces of long-suppressed lust, the predominant emotion he felt was alarm.

Because once again, he faced the prospect of never seeing her again. Standing in her abandoned flat, he knew that such an outcome could be avoided not through any action of his own, but only if she decided to bring him back into her confidence. But why should she ever reach out to him again, when he had so pointedly ignored her previous overture? Certainly not for help, that much was clear...

_I waited too long_, he repeated to himself again, and whereas he had been overwhelmed with rage and frustration only moments before, he now felt numb and slightly nauseated.

He should feel satisfied with this outcome, he acknowledged, since it directly resolved his ostensible reason for even making the exhausting, complicated journey. If he were operating purely rationally, he would be.

The problem was, of course, that warning her about Mycroft had only been the justification that a part of him had been waiting for—the part of him that had never actually deleted the tickets to Newark from his BA account after he had received her postcard. The part of him that hadn't wanted to wait—the part he had worked so hard to suppress and deny. Yet now that their separation was being imposed upon him, rather than was a choice he made of his own volition, he found the concept unbearable.

* * *

3,470 miles away and an hour later, a black telephone rang, and Mycroft Holmes picked it up and lifted it to his ear, knowing it would be the agent who had been pursuing Sherlock since his arrival at the Ministro Pistarini Airport.

After Mycroft had received the alert that Sherlock's passport had been scanned at Heathrow security, he had discovered his brother's name on the manifest of the next direct flight to Buenos Aires, and had been certain that it was a feint and misdirection. Because Sherlock would have surely realised that Mycroft would anticipate a route through Argentina and place an agent on the flight as a precaution. After all, it was the only country where the younger Holmes would be able to switch to whatever alias he preferred without fear of being tracked by the elder through CCTV, which was also readily accessible, and directly serviced by his preferred airline. _Obvious_.

And yet when his agent had confirmed that Sherlock had boarded just prior to takeoff, Mycroft had shaken his head in disappointment, even if it also meant that he was closer than he had ever come to locating his target. His brother had become too overconfident after Karachi, apparently... Or was too narrowly focused on the prospect of seeing Irene Adler, and careless in his haste and preoccupied state. Because he should have understood that precisely because Mycroft didn't have direct access to the government, he would compensate by embedding in Argentina a full complement of highly skilled intelligence assets, who would be ready to covertly track him the moment he stepped foot on land...

Not that any of that mattered, now.

"Sir. She's not here," his agent informed him, in a tone uninflected and matter of fact. "I traced him to a block of flats in Edison, New Jersey, but—"

"Thank you," Mycroft interrupted, noting with further displeasure how Sherlock had allowed himself to be traced to such an extent, "but I've been made fully aware of Ms. Adler's present location."

The agent paused, as if nonplussed by this deviation from the expected agenda, then seemed to remember herself. "Yes, sir. Very good."

"Well, that's debatable," he replied with arch smoothness, "But yes, as it happens... She's standing directly in front of me."

He hung up and turned back towards the woman with the faint but pointed smile, but his eyes didn't linger on her for long. They were pulled inexorably to the ten-month-old infant in her arms, and its dark blue, unnervingly focused gaze.

He remembered that precise gaze well, and the regret over how his relationship with Sherlock had deteriorated and hardened over the years hit him with surprisingly force. Yet out of that pain, he sensed the love and concern he had always reserved for Sherlock alone duplicate and expand to include this strange child, who had Sherlock's colouring and facial shape and _gaze_. For the first time in his adulthood and the second time in his life he didn't coldly reject a fledgling attachment. In fact, for a moment he even felt awed that he might be feeling the way _normal_ people did, rather than responding with contempt to such a notion, as was his default. Mycroft understood with a visceral conviction he had previously lacked that despite the boy's maternity, he was indisputably a Holmes as well, and he would receive every entitlement that name afforded. As the presiding patriarch of the family, Mycroft would ensure it.

And as patriarch, it was also his continued responsibility to look after his younger brother's welfare, which meant maintaining this uneasy alliance of silence with Irene Adler, for now. Perhaps eventually there would be a judicious time to break the news of his allegedly accidental paternity, but at present Sherlock was still fragile from his self-imposed exile, and was _clearly_ still subject to lapses in judgment and vigilance, due to unchecked sentiment. He didn't know what (likely devious) reasons the woman facing him had for withholding the truth of the child, but for Mycroft, the decision was borne of nothing but love and concern for his younger brother.

* * *

**Oh Mycroft, this isn't the way to mend your relationship with Sherlock. I mean, this obviously cannot turn out well for you...**

**I'm a bit sorry for all the suspense of separation I'm putting you through, but at the same time, the category label does warn of that, muahaha. You get to experience a little taste of what Sherlock is going through.**

**No disrespect meant towards Edison, NJ! I'm sure it's wonderful, as it's been voted one of the best small cities in the US on a number of occasions. Sherlock's just a snob.**


	6. The Lady Cometh

**The Lady Cometh**

The child looked away, apparently bored with Mycroft and his unmoving, pensive expression, and the broken gaze seemed to undo the temporary spell under which Mycroft had found himself. He blinked, and hardened his gaze to look back up at Ms. Adler, but of course she had already seen everything that had passed over his face, and she appeared smugly amused. She looked as if she had seen everything she had expected, and it was rather infuriating.

Now he had no difficulty frowning, and he lifted his chin slightly. "I should inform you that my employees will be going through the Border Agency's recorded video of your arrival. I'll have your alias and its entire history by the time you walk out that door."

To his frustration, her expression didn't even flicker. "Oh, do you routinely have your people waste their time on useless tasks?" she asked with a cavalier, quizzical tone.

He stared at her, running her statement against various possible scenarios, but was forced to answer with a curt "I don't understand."

"The identity your brother provided me served its purpose, but I won't be needing it anymore," she explained, and Mycroft tried not to react to the reference of Sherlock's subversion. "Obviously Irene Adler can't come back—_yet_," she continued, "but the alias I'll be using will be a new one. "

"Which I expect you think I will create for you," he replied, one piece clicking into place.

"I _expect_ it will the best protection I could hope for," she said with command. "Not forged, merely fraudulent."

"Yes, _protection_," Mycroft murmured, leaning back in his chair. "I expected this."

"Mm quite, well done you," she said, but her tone was dismissive. "Oh, and speaking of your employees... Your assistant is a pretty young thing, but she doesn't play submissive very well, does she?"

His mind whirring, he immediately shot back, "That hasn't been my experience. Not overtly enthusiastic perhaps, but always compliant."

"Lucky you, then," she purred. "But when my colleague heard that someone was asking quite a lot of questions and looked into it, she certainly saw through her in an instant—women like us can always tell when someone's heart is truly in it. There's a look in the eye that cannot be faked: relief and liberation." She paused and cocked her head, looking at him appraisingly, and then raised an ironic brow. "_You_ might have that look, if you ever gave yourself the chance."

Before he could make some sort of retort or indignant protest, she had already moved on to her next point.

"I decided to cut through all your futile efforts to track me down and come to you. I'm sure you had loads of strategy and contingency plans, but I thought I'd save you the strain."

"So," Mycroft said, ignoring her remark, and getting back the salient subject. "That American woman—she tipped you off, then. You two know each other."

The baby babbled something nonsensical and the Adler woman bounced him slightly, then smiled at Mycroft with apparent relish. "Yes, she's a former protégée. How do you think she gained access to all those high-profile people almost overnight? I gave her my client list when I disappeared, free of charge except for the understanding that she would have an open-ended, non-pecuniary obligation to me. It's worth millions, and I don't just mean in blackmail."

"Of course," Mycroft murmured under his breath, and she gave a brief nod.

"To a girl with her potential and talent it's practically priceless, and when my old clients lost access to me she was just the ticket to soothe their pain—or cause it, more accurately," she smirked, her eyes sparkling. "I say this about very few people, but I trust her, mostly because of the debt she owes me, and so she keeps an eye and ear out for any sign that my cover is blown in the UK; since all her new clients knew me once, and have direct access to intelligence on matters such as that, she's the ideal lookout."

"And yet now you've voluntarily blown your own cover to me, and I am still waiting for your explanation as to why," Mycroft pointed out, and when he found himself wanting to lean a bit forward, he settled back into his chair instead, giving off the appearance of nonchalance. "Why risk exposure when not even my lot could find you?"

To Mycroft's surprise, she looked down at the boy, and her carefully confident expression faltered at last. Still, when she spoke again, it was with the same lofty tone.

"Because it's not you or your people who worry me, and unfortunately I don't have such a good lookout with the faction that _does_. As useful as Sherlock's forged identity was for me, ultimately it was compromised, and even though I was careful, so was the one after that. I'm not equipped to rebuild a life yet again, Mr. Holmes, at least not one that will be able to protect a child as well. I haven't lost everything, but I also don't have the resources I used to. Except for you."

Mycroft didn't bother asking who could be after her; there were at least a dozen parties—individuals and organisations—who had been directly invested in her assassination, and he had detailed records on all of them. Still, it was a bit strange that the Karachi story had managed to convince him, and after he was so through, but it had not fooled someone else. And even more curious was the fact that she was actually admitting a shortcoming to him, especially when she had known for nineteen months that she held the trump card: her son, his nephew.

"You've had the boy as leverage this whole time, why even worry about the UK finding out?" he pressed. "Obviously I wouldn't let any actual physical harm come to you as the mother of my nephew_." Imprisonment is tempting; exile, perhaps_, he thought, _but no, not actual harm now.  
_  
"And that's why I'm here now," she replied. "But contrary to what you might believe, I would rather avoid using my son in such a way. I'd have preferred that you never know about him at all, but now I haven't much choice. His safety is paramount, and as I said, you're my best resource in ensuring his protection."

For a moment her expression appeared to harden in a chilling resolve, as if she were determined in more ways than solely protecting the child. It was a look of tenacity, as though she were still intending to do something proactive, even though all her previous plans had come to fruition and now all she had to do was accept the protection she claimed she needed. But beyond that Mycroft couldn't discern anything, let alone what new scheme she might put into action, and then after another moment, he was left wondering if he had ever seen anything at all.

He tented his fingers under his chin and leaned back in his chair, surveying the woman in front of him, and steadily avoiding looking at the infant, although he seemed to draw Mycroft's eyes like a gravitation pull, particularly when he let out a exclamatory noise and waved his arms as if getting impatient with all the adults' talk.

It was all a bit surreal; this conversation with Ms. Adler about organising protection was certainly familiar, but now she was arranging it for her child—the one she had conceived with _Sherlock_.

He pursed his lips, not willing to go down that path again, and refocused on the woman in front of him.

"A new identity and protection. That's all you want," he summarised with some scepticism, and she tilted her head slightly, and one corner of her mouth turned up.

"You seem surprised, Mr. Holmes. Have I confounded expectations?"

His brow lifted infinitesimally. "That, Ms Adler, still remains to be seen."

As legitimate as the woman's claims appeared to be, it was still possible—perhaps even probably—that there was more at play than was immediately obvious. They would have been able to arrange protection and funds from afar, and yet she elected to return to London herself.

Perhaps she wanted Mycroft to see the child in person, so that his subsequent sentimental attachment would ensure that their deal was honoured. But while that might be part of it, he was still certain that there was more to her reappearance than that. The in-house DNA analysis that confirmed Sherlock's paternity had been enough for him to uphold any offer of protection, since his reasons for valuing family actually had very little to do with sentiment (with one, perhaps soon to be _two_, critical exceptions).

And speaking of that exception, he worried that whatever she still had up her sleeve had to do with his younger brother. For a moment he entertained the idea of offering her the protection she sought under the condition that she not have any contact with Sherlock, but after another moment's consideration, he dismissed the idea. If he set such rigid conditions it would do nothing but push her to do the opposite of what he wanted. This was a very delicate situation, and he couldn't just dictate orders as was his usual wont. Maintaining any semblance of control would take real diplomacy.

Yet before he could broach the subject of his brother, and hopefully learn why she wished to keep the boy a secret from him, she rose abruptly, hoisting the child up to her shoulder in a way that he would have never guessed could look so natural of Irene Adler.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. I need to go, but I'll be leaving my son here for an hour or so. You're the only one I can trust who knows I'm here, and I have an important errand to run."

Mycroft stared at her aghast for a moment before spluttering angrily, "You must be mad if you think I'm going to allow that. You will both stay here, under my supervision, until we negotiate the precise terms of your return."

"No, Mr. Holmes, we won't," she replied in a blithe but firm voice. "At least I won't, but enjoy my son's company. I think you'll find he's quite charming for an infant, and resembles his father more than just a little. Maybe you'll find you can actually control this one. . . though I doubt it."

He suppressed his urge to scowl at her dig. "And what leads you to believe that you can trust me? I could arrange it so that you never see your son again and it would be as easy for me as ordering lunch. What's to stop me from taking him into my custody and arresting you?"

"I daresay nothing. But you won't." She sighed, and turned back towards him, though he could tell that threatening the custody of her son had had some effect. Even though her expression was still neutral, her eyes were now cold flints. "You should know by now that you can't bluff me. Your position and your family, those are the things that matter to you. Work for selfish rather than dutiful patriotic reasons though, of course, and not any marital-based family. I'm sure you've considered it, but I'm equally as confident that you dismissed it for various reasons. No woman could melt those icecaps—nor man. No, it's more about the Holmes family itself: its history, its honour... And now my son is a member of that family, and by extension, so am I."

She continued to look into his eyes for a beat, then a triumphant, vicious smile bloomed slowly and deliberately on her face, and Mycroft felt the scowl he had been suppressing turn down his own lips. He wanted to snap, "_Illegitimate_ member of the family," but he knew, and worse _she_ would know he knew, that that was actually irrelevant. Worse, it would only come off as petty and a bit desperate, and tip the balance even further in her direction.

"But in case you needed further encouragement," she said, now brisk and business-like, "I have people with proof of your brother's role in my rescue, and of the fact that you've known I'm alive and have kept it a secret. I ring my contact at a predetermined interval and give a code word that confirms my safety."

"If it's only a matter of one word, you realise that we have methods—" He saw her expression and stopped at once, briefly rolling his eyes at himself. "Of course. You _are_ consistent, aren't you? There are two words. One confirms safety and the other is the word that would trigger the release of the information."

"_Good_, Mr. Holmes, you're learning," she said in mock approval. "Yes, your exposure would only be a phonecall or missed communication away. . ." she murmured in confirmation, and Mycroft found himself once again astounded by her sheer cleverness and audacity. If he were very honest with himself, he could admit that he saw what attracted his brother to this woman—to a very finite point, however. Beyond that, he would vehemently rather not consider.

"But that was just a precaution," she clarified. "Naturally I didn't get to where I was by not covering my bases. I know it won't come to that, because first and foremost you wouldn't do anything to adversely affect your only nephew, and most likely the first and only heir to your family's legacy. Not only can I trust that you won't arrest me, but I can also be confident that you'll provide extensive protection for me—_us_."

She pinned him with another lengthy look after she was finished speaking, and he found himself rendered rather speechless, a trick literally no one else had ever accomplished, save perhaps Sherlock during his ever more increasingly self-destructive years, at some new low he had reached.

Becoming speechless as a result of being out-strategised was a new and wholly unpleasant experience.

She seemed pleased with this—_As well she should be,_ he thought with distinct reproach—and she made her way towards him with the infant.

No one in his life ever violated the decorum of not thrusting things into his arms unsolicited, and so he almost dropped the boy in shock when she pressed him to Mycroft. It was the first time he had held any child since Sherlock had been just a bit older than this age (he thankfully wasn't a politician and didn't need to win popularity by kissing babies), but somehow his muscle memory remained intact, and he quickly recovered the fumble.

"Goodbye Nero, my darling," she murmured against the baby's ashy brown curls, and then with a kiss on his head, she turned towards the door.

"Take my mobile number before you go," Mycroft said as she reached the threshold, in his icy _I'm not asking, I'm telling _voice that usually struck fear in the hearts of those at whom it was directed.

Of course it had no effect on the former Irene Adler; she simply smiled her sharp-edged, dominatrix smile. "No need, Mr. Holmes, I've known it for years."

He grit his teeth at this and said, "I might have changed it."

"But you haven't," she replied with absolute certainty, and then with a last enigmatic smirk at him, and a lingering and impenetrable look at the infant, she turned and left Mycroft's office.

The child swiveled around at the waist and gave one plaintive cry of protest, stretching an arm to point at where his mother had disappeared, but when she didn't reappear after a moment, he seemed to accept her absence, and turned back in Mycroft's arms to look at him with that same steady, contemplative gaze again.

Allowing himself to return that gaze and study the infant intently now that Ms. Adler was gone, he again noticed the strong resemblance Nero shared with Sherlock. If he had held on to any irrational doubt (_hope_) about the veracity of the memory stick photos and the legitimacy of his lab's DNA findings, they were entirely eradicated with the child now physically before him.

He had told his assistant that he was the picture of Sherlock at this age, but that wasn't entirely true. Mycroft supposed that the child was objectively more attractive. It seemed that the maternal genes had had a positive affect in terms of appearance. How would they translate in terms of temperament, however? he wondered. If proponents of 'nature' in the 'Nature vs. Nurture' debate were correct, anyone who took part in his upbringing was in for a hellish ride. Of course, the way in which he would be nurtured certainly had the potential to be disastrous as well, if Irene Adler were to retain primary custody. He couldn't imagine that she had the capacity to be the warmest, most stable of mothers.

But then again, it wasn't as if he had much expertise in what made for a particularly nurturing or attentive parent.

He gave a mental shake of his head and focused on the child again.

_Nero_, she had said. So that was the boy's name. She'd not mentioned it in her sole correspondence to him, and he had been too preoccupied with more serious details of the situation to concern himself with the child's forename. In real terms, only the paternal name into which he'd been born mattered—it would facilitate the protection that might save his life.

But Nero was certainly an interesting choice, Mycroft mused, and in some ways it seemed appropriate. The most well-known Nero had been a contentious figure who was the last of his powerful ruling dynasty (he had been adopted by his uncle and groomed to be his heir and successor, in fact), and his mother had been famously beautiful yet ruthlessly ambitious, and had herself also returned to the capital after a long political exile. And of course there was that absurd yet enduring legend about him being a keen fiddler, a trait the emperor shared with a certain man in both his and Ms. Adler's acquaintance...

At the very least, Mycroft thought with a trace of wry amusement, she had continued the tradition of naming the Holmes males names that the mainstream might consider bizarre and archaic—unique names for inarguably unique boys.

He looked down at the infant, who was now bracing his arms against Mycroft's chest and leaning as far back as he could whilst maintaining his balance. Perhaps he did so because he didn't feel comfortable relaxing in a stranger's arms, but Mycroft got the impression that it was more to do with the fact that Nero wanted to get a better view of him. Dear God, the child was already displaying signs of his father's trademark scan, and the effect was slightly unnerving, especially considering it couldn't have been learned behaviour.

In general, the entire encounter left Mycroft feeling uncharacteristically disconcerted.

* * *

After spending almost ten minutes obsessively inspecting the flat down to its finest details, the manic and agitated energy that had possessed him seemed to run its course, and it abruptly sapped from his body. He looked up from where he had been studying faint scratch marks on the base moulding of her office doorway, feeling dazed and disjointed, as if he was swimming back to consciousness out of a particularly bad drug-induced high.

But now that he had snapped back to full awareness, his lip curled hard, and without any last glances at his surroundings he straightened to his full height, strode to the front door, picked up the keepall in one jerky movement, and walked out.

She wasn't in Edison, he couldn't discern where she was, all evidence pointed to the fact that her relocation was voluntary and not a result of coercion, and that was the end of it. The fact that he felt persistent attraction and concern for the woman was bad and disruptive enough; he would not expend energy on regret or self-recrimination. If anything, he had dodged a bullet in not reuniting with her. His initial (mortifying, in retrospect) reaction had told him all he needed to know about how he still felt, not that it was really any surprise. He had suppressed his sentiment to some degree when it had become evident that they would never sustain any type of relationship or enjoy an ongoing understanding, yes, but he wasn't such a fool as to believe he had overcome it. Avoidance was the best option at this point. That it was the _only_ option available to him was actually an advantage, since he obviously wouldn't accept it if there were other on the table. The fact that he had flown through three hemispheres—while attempting to elude his brother and with only a coded postcard to go on—proved that quite conclusively.

He caught a taxi back to Newark, where he took the Acela down to Washington, and then caught another taxi to Reagan National Airport. There he used his own credit card and passport to travel directly back to Heathrow. He no longer needed to cloak his whereabouts so as to protect her location, and at least this way he would put some distance between his first known point of travel, and her last known point. Plus, it was consistent with his (admittedly flimsy) cover.

Not that it mattered much, at this point. Mycroft certainly knew that Sherlock hadn't gone to look into a case about a potentially corrupt politician, and John, well... he believed that John had recovered most, if not all, of his trust in Sherlock once more. Even if Sherlock had left him feeling vaguely suspicious when they had parted back in London, it wasn't as if he would ever pry into Sherlock's credit card records. Still, Sherlock hated to operate in any manner less than thorough, and felt the need to bring all the loose ends together in one cohesive cover story.

He was vaguely aware that he was exerting control where he could, but he _didn't_ care, and he certainly didn't examine that thought further.

Twelve hours after he had left The Woman's flat he reentered his own, which seemed strangely claustrophic and unappealing to him. It was as if he were returning to his flat after having failed or come up short, and it was distinctly unpleasant. It was true that he hadn't achieved his objective, and yet she was apparently safe, so should that matter? He then came to the realisation that he actually had no concept of what would've constituted a 'victory' in this case. Would it have been sufficient to merely inform her of the danger? Or, to inform her and then assist with the transition into a new life again? Something... more?

At that final thought he sensed himself veering back into dangerous territory. He managed to push the thought away, but he couldn't ignore how the deep-seated boredom and frustration that had been simmering during the extent of his journey was beginning to come to a boil. The ennui almost felt physical, and when Sherlock entered his flat, not even the sight of his friend could soothe the feeling.

In fact, seeing John had just the reverse effect. A small part of his mind pointed out that that wasn't the familiar face he was craving to see, but again he suppressed it, just he suppressed the thought about 'something more,' as well as countless other thoughts of a similar nature that had been firing against his defenses for the past twelve hours.

Unaware of Sherlock's mood and the imminent probability of him lashing out, John rose from a chair at the table to greet him, a welcoming grin on his face. It seemed that in the time that Sherlock had been away, John had forgiven Sherlock for appearing to ditch him, but this bit of good will did nothing to improve Sherlock's agitated and tightly-wound temperament.

"Hey, you're back! Did everything in Amer—"

"The answers are yes and no," he interrupted coldly, taking a sort of perverse delight in the detached manner with which he spoke—one with a distinct lack of any of the softer emotions.

"...Yes and no?" John repeated, his brow furrowing, and the smile faltering.

"Yes, everything in Washington went fine," he lied blithely, without expending even the slightest bit of mental effort. "It was obvious at the outset what was going on—"

"I haven't seen anything in the papers so I take it the politician wasn't guilty?" John asked, still trying to engage Sherlock, to give him the benefit of the doubt. A detached part of him appreciated it, but the part that wanted to provoke John into a row would not be so readily calmed.

"—And no," he continued sharply as he took off his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair, "you may not write about it in your blog."

"I wasn't planning on—" John paused and shifted his weight, appearing to process Sherlock's words for a moment, then furrowed his brows and sat down again, perched on the arm of what had become his chair. "You know Sherlock, if I didn't know you better, pretty much every tenth word from your mouth would piss me off."

"Which would make _me_ wonder why the other nine were having no affect," he shot back. "It's a good job you know me so well, then."

John shook his head in bemusement, then crossed his arms. "What's gotten into you lately? It's like..." He seemed to cast about for a certain memory, and then he gave a minute nod. "It's like the time around that case we had in Devon, with Baskerville, all over again. I thought going abroad would help but obviously it hasn't. You're irritated, you've come over all twitchy—well, more so than usual—"

Sherlock did not at all appreciate being reminded of that time, and he felt his temper increase further. He was aware that he was letting feelings take hold of him after all, but it wasn't as if he had ever moderated emotions such as anger or irritation. And what he felt at being reminded of how he had been, _now_ of all times, was indeed anger.

Just prior to the Baskerville case Sherlock had found himself in quite a state—and that was putting it mildly, he conceded. At that point enough time had passed since he had last seen Irene that the afterglow had dissipated, leaving behind it restlessness and frustration—the latter of which was compounded the fact that he didn't _want_ to feel that way (to miss her, to want her), and yet seemed powerless to prevent it. Nor had enough time passed so that he had yet gained any distance or detachment.

And so he had been stuck in a detestable in-between state wherein he spent most moments outside of work helplessly longing for Irene while also castigating himself for it—feeling both grateful that he didn't know where she was, and hating that fact. And though his state of emotional upheaval had somewhat bled into the course of his investigation, he had been grateful that something so fascinating and all-consuming had come along at that point, or else he wasn't sure what he might have resorted to doing. And actually, confronting his unwanted emotions through the scope of that case—and weathering them, _overcoming_ them—had helped him with his more personal matter as well. Yet it was undeniable that it had been quite hairy in Flat B for a while, for everyone concerned.

"And as I recall telling you then, nothing is wrong with me," Sherlock lied; nonetheless his terse voice brokered no room for debate.

Still, a part of him was aware he believed that if he declared it assertively enough, it might become the truth. Hadn't he once heard the phrase, "I think therefore I am"? He wasn't sure if it had been said by someone who was considered a thinker of note, or if he had just overheard it on some advert or the like, but he agreed with all the various implications of that statement. His mind was incomparably powerful and the primary engine of his being. If he managed to convince himself of the words he now spoke, they would become his reality. "I'm perfectly fine."

John shook his head with a humourless and slightly incredulous grin on his face. "Yeah, that might work on people who don't share a flat with you, mate, but you weren't then, and you aren't now. I do know you so well, like you said. And mercurial as you can be a lot of the time, I can still tell when something is both—"

"Oooh, 'mercurial,' _big word_," Sherlock cut in, sarcastic. As far as deflections went, it was a bit obvious, but Sherlock wasn't exactly aiming for precision at that moment.

John stared at him, his jaw subtly working.

"Fine, project your—whatever, _angst_, or something—on me," he finally said, "You're not exactly helping to build your own case here, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a derisive sound and sneered, "I don't need to build any _case_ because I – am – fine."

Again John looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head and let out a long, controlled breath. "Yes, okay, message received. I'll quite prying. But I know, and _you_ know, that I'm right." He got a shrewd look on his face that Sherlock didn't much care for, and continued, "Ever since Mycroft asked you to help him."

For a fraction of a second Sherlock felt pure panic at those words, before he remembered that he had told John that Mycroft was trying to get him to help with a case. His eyes had automatically narrowed, but fortunately John hadn't noticed.

He was headed towards the door, and then added from over his shoulder "...And this time you won't be manipulating me into telling you where the cigarettes are."

"I don't _need_ any cigarettes, I've quit permanently."

"Fine. Good," he heard John say through what sounded like clenched teeth.

"Yes. I am," Sherlock retorted in a raised voice, having to have the last word. "_Now_ you're grasping it!"

_Exeunt John Watson_, he thought sarcastically, as John predictably grabbed his coat and pounded down the steps.

When he heard the downstairs door shut so soon after he himself had entered through it, he smirked with the thought, _I believe a new record must've been set. _Therow had actually made him feel better in a strange way, as if the tight sensation in his chest had been caused by the dangerously mounting pressure in a boiler, and the argument had been a way for it to release steam and equalise.

But as time passed and the intense need to pick an argument that he'd felt since stepping into the flat faded, the savagely good feeling started becoming distinctly _not_ good. He recognised that just as he had done when he had returned to London after his faked death, he was exploiting John's patience and goodwill towards him by using John as an outlet for his frustration over The Woman. His friend had accused Sherlock of projecting his angst on him, and he had been more correct than he could know.

Damn it, now he did want a cigarette.

Twenty minutes after John had somehow managed not to slam the door behind him, Sherlock pulled out his phone with a sigh and began to text him the peace offering of, _Joy King Lau takeaway? I'm ordering_, whenhe heard the key turn in the lock downstairs. He could faintly hear Mrs. Hudson rustling about in her kitchen, so it appeared as though his friend had returned.

At the first sound of the rustling heavier-grade denim, the heavy tread of the boots on the floorboards seemed to confirm that it was John. But it became apparent almost at once that the steps coming up the stairs weren't quite right, and as the heavier trudges transitioned into lighter, quicker ones he stiffened in his seat and his pulse jumped, the phone slipping out of his hands to fall onto the cushion of his chair, and the unfinished text forgotten. For a moment his face betrayed his shock, but with effort he managed to temper it into impassivity again once the footsteps reached the door that stood ajar.

"Irene," he said, and he was reassured that his voice sounded outwardly steady and unfazed. "Or should I call you Erin? Oh wait, _no_," he said in a sarcastically recalling tone, "that name has exceeded its usefulness, hasn't it?"

He finally turned his head to look at her, and his heart stuttered for a moment, in spite of the shabby, oversized men's clothing she wore and the greying hoodie drawn tightly around her face. It had never been about physical attraction, after all—at least not in and of itself.

At his question, her serious, searching gaze transformed in an instant to her more familiar, and damnably enticing, default expression of witty and teasing engagement. "It _was_ Erin," she said in the low, honeyed voice that still managed to incite half a dozen physiological responses in him the instant he heard it, "for the ten hours I was on the aeroplane and in the airports at either end courtesy of your counterfeit passport. But recently it's been Renée. Renée Wolfe. Although I daresay it won't be that for much longer, either." She paused, then added with a slightly mischievous raised eyebrow, "Hello, Sherlock."

His lips tightened, as if firming against the more sentimental responses he might make if he weren't hyper careful, and he opted for a detached albeit strained, "How did you get in?"

He glanced towards the keys she held at her side and saw something familiar: the worn plate-metal symbol of a caduceus dangling from the key-ring.

"Ah, so John got pick-pocketed, I see," he said quietly, though now he could sense a subtle tremor in his voice—his pounding heartbeat. Now that he actually, physically, looked at her for the first time in almost twenty months, he was less able to so tightly control his physical reactions.

"Yes, which also gives us the advantage of not being easily interrupted," she said, though with less of the suggestiveness than he might have expected.

Sherlock gazed at her steadily, his face expressionless, though a storm of thoughts and emotions continued to churn beneath the stoic exterior. Desires warred with wariness—the id versus the super-ego.

She pushed the hood away from her face and pulled out her long mane of hair so that it cascaded around her shoulders, making an incongruous image between the neck up and the shoulders down. An image that was—from the neck up at least—far too evocative of how she had looked when he'd last spent time with her for comfort.

He stood abruptly and went to the window, where he picked up his violin and bow and brought the instrument to his shoulder, though he didn't make a move to touch horsehair to string. The heft of the wood in his hands and the familiar shape were both grounding and comforting, as was the knowledge that if he needed to drown out anything she said for the sake of his dignity or self-preservation, he could commence playing in an instant. But in the meantime, he stared intently at the street, and trained his eyes on the postman making his way down the pavement with his large red and fluorescent yellow trolley. His eyes passed over him, seeking to catalogue every detail he could find (cyclist, gay but in still the closet, either born in Romania or has nonintegrated Romanian parents), but as a distraction it was rather pathetic. None of those things _mattered_ when they were just random and out-of-context observations that served no purpose. And they certainly couldn't compete with the woman who had been one of the most singular distractions of his life. Her presence to his right burned a hole into his focus, and so after just a moment he found himself turning his eyes away from the worker below to watch her from the corner of his eyes instead.

He could tell that she recognised his hold on the violin as the delaying and defense tactic it was, but she didn't say anything and instead leaned against the door frame, looking at him with an intent and appraising expression on her face. For once, she was letting him acclimatise to her presence, and though on some level he appreciated the gesture, appreciated being given time to consider a coping tactic, he thought with a helpless sort of chagrin that it would be of little use. He had known Irene Adler for several years now, and he had never been able to become inured or impassive to her, either in the short term or the long. And even after having neither seen nor spoken to her for a certain span of time, it continued to be obvious to Sherlock that she held the same indefinable and dangerous hold over him.

* * *

** "I think therefore I am," is a translation from a quote by Descartes and I figured Sherlock would appreciate it.**

**Sadly I can't take credit for the exchange about John taking offense at every tenth word Sherlock spoke. The original quote comes from Charles Marowitz's play _Sherlock's Last Case_ and goes as follows:  
**

**Watson: "Holmes, if I didn't know you better, I'd take offence at every tenth word you uttered."  
Holmes: "Which would make me fiercely scrutinize why the other nine were having no effect."**

**HA.**

**If you have any other questions or comments, I'd love to hear them!**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock and Irene made eye contact again and this time it felt much more drawn-out and somehow weightier, and he found himself prompted into action in order to break it. Somewhat stiffly, he gestured towards the chairs by the hearth, and she raised one eyebrow at his show of formal manners, but then accepted the invitation to sit, alighting gracefully in John's chair and making the picture of refined elegance despite her horribly tatty clothes. But those were incidentals, he knew; he could still clearly see the woman beneath (in both the physical and metaphorical senses of the word).

There had been times since he had been back 'from the dead,' so to speak, when he had wondered if he had imagined, or at least greatly exaggerated, the intensity of the intimacy they had shared in the several days they had spent together following her rescue in Pakistan—first in a hotel, and then on the cargo ship that had been their escape from southwest Asia.

He had become particularly suspicious of his memories in light of how desperately he had clung to them during that year... away. His memories were almost always of perfect integrity and accuracy, but in such cases he was recalling facts and observations, not ephemera such as emotions. Moreover, the thought of her and the time they had shared had been such a vital consolation and diversion for him, that he frequently wondered if he had invented much of what he recalled about those few days as a coping mechanism. He had been desperately lonely; his thoughts on the subject could not be reliably trusted.

He had also reasoned during those times that even if he accurately recalled what they had shared, he had no reason to think that it was something that was at all replicable. Even at the time he had grasped that it was in all likelihood a one-off—that the type of long-term, complementary, and companionable partnership he enjoyed with John could never be reproduced (with a sexual component added, of course) with her. As meaningful as it had seemed, the factors that had lead to that unprecedented physical and emotional intimacy had been unique and singularly volatile. Mortal danger, secrecy and subterfuge—those was enough to excite him in any case.

And yet now that they were in the same room again, in his all too familiar and inherently dull flat, and he was once again faced with the woman herself rather than simply the memory of her, the pull was undeniable and seemed to confirm and validate everything he remembered. There was an intangible link between them that generated excitement all on its own; it was not dependent on any external factors, as he might have previously come to wonder. And if he were correctly interpreting the way her eyes seemed to warm and linger over him during this moment of reunion, it was mutual.

That made this meeting all the more dangerous, and he needed to be on his guard. It wasn't that he automatically distrusted her, not anymore—he needed to maintain vigilance over his _own_ emotions and control.

He straightened his spine and took a small, discrete breath through his nostrils.

"My brother is looking for you," he told her tersely, his face angled away from her. "But then, you knew that," he added. She said nothing, but then again he didn't need her to confirm it.

He suddenly turned on her, but didn't move from his position at the window. "It's excessively foolish of you to come back to London. Not even I'm good enough to hide you here, directly under his nose."

"Even if I'm in disguise?" she said, a bit too lightly for his liking, as if she weren't taking his warning entirely seriously.

"The best disguise on earth only goes so far," he ground out, "And certainly not far enough for _that_."

Again she didn't reply, and he felt his eyes flick towards said disguise, against his volition. But once there, they lingered, and then he couldn't look away. He took in every detail of her that he could, and still thirsted for more. It really had been far too long since he had last seen her. Still, it wasn't long enough to blur his memory of her (he wasn't certain that there would be any length of time long enough for that), and there was something about her now that struck him as slightly unfamiliar.

"You're different," he finally said, and before she had the chance to make some sort of impertinent but painfully precise retort about her uniqueness (particularly to him), he clarified, "different from how you were when I last saw you." He was frustrated to hear that now he sounded slightly out of breath, and attempted to focus on the puzzle of her physical appearance rather than her appearance in his _flat_.

She cocked her head at that, her eyebrows suddenly knitting together in avid attention, and he tightened his lips and cast his eyes again over her nails, her hair, her face: anything else not obscured by her disheveled and oversized kit. Her nails were short and unpolished as opposed to when he had first met her, but in neither case was that observation helpful. Long nails painted in red varnish suited a dominatrix, but she was no longer The Woman (at least not professionally; in his mind she ever would be, he knew). Whoever she was now, the lack thereof didn't do anything but rule out that particular, known fact.

Her face had softened very slightly but it had always looked less severe without makeup, and countless things could have attributed to that, including the healthy and attractive weight she had gained since he had last seen her, when she had been verging on gauntness.

And yet, he was certainly as riveted and fascinated by her as ever, and that was invigorating. He had missed that. He was used to feeling that siren song of promised intrigue towards an unsolved crime, but feeling that same phenomenon towards an individual person was almost exclusive to her—and indeed _was_ unique to her since Moriarty's demise.

"I don't suppose it's the clothes?" she suggested with an unreadable glint in her eye after a minute of silence had passed. It looked teasing, but Sherlock could tell that it wasn't, not quite. "Denim trousers, trainers, long-sleeved vest, a bulky hoodie...?"

"I'm hardy thrown by your disguise as a man, Irene," he scoffed.

She raised her eyebrows in wry humour. "Well John certainly didn't notice me."

Sherlock shot her a withering look that he knew she would clearly interpret, and she acknowledged it with a small, glib smile_._

"Actually, I _meant_ that you're rather used to seeing me in quite a bit less..."

He didn't allow that image to sink in, and immediately replied, "That's not it."

She looked at him steadily, the expression on her face not giving anything away, as he scrutinised her for another long moment, his brow creased in uncertain curiosity. He could only tell that she was somehow different from his memory of her but he refused to admit that he was still stymied by her.

With a short pause and then an exhalation, he changed the subject.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me where you've been in the past several days? You obviously left New Jersey two days ago, judging by the lack of oxidation in the scratches on your wood floors."

Her face didn't betray any sign of shock at the revelation that he had been inside her flat, and he realised in amazement that she had somehow already known that. But he refused to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging that she was a step ahead of him, even if it was perhaps a bit obvious.

"Oh, I make it a rule to never simply tell," she answered him. "I only show, if anything at all. But since you claim on your website to observe 'everything,' perhaps you can tell _me_ where I've been. You can make up for the fact that you can't tell me how I've supposedly changed."

_You rarely show either, even when you're ostensibly baring all,_ he thought as he regarded her, though he didn't speak it aloud. _There had been that brief time in_—but as soon as he thought it, he shoved it away again.

He took several steps towards her that looked confident enough, although he didn't draw closer that about a metre, and only so that he could get a closer and more detailed look at her. He stopped just behind his Le Corbusier, the back of the chair acting as a literal representation of the metaphorical wall that stood between them.

He scanned her body again, then focused his gaze on her left wrist. Protruding from the edge of her sleeve was faint residue from a plaster she had just removed. Under normal circumstances he would grab the person's wrist and turn it to better see the pattern, but he was strangely reticent to initiate physical contact with her. From where he stood it looked to have dimensions different than those of an Elastoplast or any other type of adhesive bandage available in the UK. Then again, he had already known that she had come from abroad recently, and unfortunately he wasn't familiar enough with plasters from other countries to say whether that one had been purchased in America, or in another possible destination that she had visited between her departure from Edison, and her arrival in London.

His eyes narrowed; it was just like before. He could not discern anything besides evidence which told that which he already knew—or nothing at all. There was nothing new or revealing.

_Correction_, he thought with a twitch of his lips. There was, he just couldn't quantify or label it. It was something intangible to him, and he hated the very principle of that.

He was gratified that though he couldn't read her body, at least he could use the clothing she had selected as sort of secondary documents that shed partial light on her. It wasn't cheating, since the clothes people selected spoke volumes in and of themselves, but it was still maddeningly inadequate.

But given they were all he had to go on...

He took a deep breath, then began to recite in a droning narration:

"Your clothes are second hand, obviously, and though their clues don't give me direct information about you, they certainly indicate a lot. They didn't come from Oxfam, the quality is too worn for their standards—deliberately chosen by you for that fact, of course. You wanted to look as if you'd been sleeping rough, after all. But you did get them from a similar such charity shop on the high street of a working class borough. Same goes for your trainers... Particularly telling are the traces of very faint but distinctive multicoloured powder along the edges of the soles... And if I'm not mistaken, which I'm not, the holiday of Holi just passed, so Indian then, or possibly Nepalese (but far less likely). The shirt has faint stains around the sleeves that have the consistency of jet engine oil. Could possibly be high-octane car petrol but in conjunction with the hoodie which has an EVA Air logo I'd say jet engine oil. Given the obvious fact that those two items of clothing did not originally belong to the same person—wear patterns and fit are completely different, and the hoodie owner was fastidious, borderline obsessive-compulsive really, whereas the trainers and jeans men were each a bit of a slob—then we're looking at a community where a sample of the population works at the airport, but in low-level, manual jobs judging by the shoddy quality and no-name brand of the denim and the threadbare areas: knees and calf-areas especially, due to kneeling and from where mop caddies dragged against their legs. Putting together all those factors I'd say... Hounslow, yes? That indicates that you've likely just come from Heathrow since Hounslow is directly en route between the airport and NW1, but by Underground rather than by car, otherwise you'd have stopped at similar shops in West Kensington near where the A4 turns into West Cromwell Road. But the Piccadilly Line has three stations in Hounslow. My you _are_ slumming; I wonder when was the last time _you_ stepped foot on the tube? But moreover, you were apparently quite eager to see me, stopping to acquire your disguise on the journey here rather than coming to central London to settle first, and finding something suitable around here. Where's your suitcase?"

When he finished he was surprised to see her regarding him without any obvious guile, and for a split second he almost thought he could read deep and genuine emotion in her face. But before he could interpret what it was he was seeing, her expression shifted into one of aloof amusement.

"I see you haven't lost your touch," she said. "Still the great detective, just minus the funny hat." She cast her eyes around the flat, as if looking for it.

Her words struck him for some reason, and an instant later he understood that it was because banter like this was of the type they had exchanged when they had first met. That is to say, before Karachi, and everything that had happened there. He wondered if she were picking up his own cues and behaving accordingly, or if there was another reason that she was acting this way, rather than how she had come to act with him when...

He paused for a moment, then blinked and reiterated, "Your case. I do hope that if you've left it in the hall that Mrs. Hudson doesn't break her other hip falling over it."

She laughed lightly, then said, "That won't be a problem because I haven't just come from Heathrow. But well done on the Underground and Hounslow bit, that's all true. Only I wasn't on my way to NW1, I was headed somewhere else entirely. Unfortunately for you that leaves practically the entire city, since the Picadilly line is the only—"

"The only underground line into central London," Sherlock finished for her in a grumble, and her smile widened.

"And I take it _Hounslow_ isn't precisely what you were after when you asked where I've been." She quirked one still perfectly manicured eyebrow at him and Sherlock vaguely processed that neither the expression nor the brow accounted for what had changed.

"But you have been in London at least part of the time," he reasoned, and she gave him a smile that he interpreted as rewarding, but he ignored it.

"_What's different_?" he murmured, frustrated. "At first I thought you were dressed this way because you were in disguise to avoid suspicion. Part of my homeless network, obviously."

"Yes, Dr. Watson mentioned it on his blog," she said, and she gave a small smile at the mention of it.

"Clever. My neighbours are accustomed to seeing them around here so you'd avoid notice."

"And homeless youth are overlooked or even invisible wherever they go," she pointed out, crossing her legs demurely at the ankle and leaning forward slightly. "No one wants to make eye contact with a young person who has to live on the street... Which is why it makes such an excellent disguise."

He supposed that if he subscribed to her theory about disguises, he could comment that like his network of contacts, she was without stability, a legitimate identity, or a home, but it almost seemed too obvious to even mention. Besides he was more interested in a realisation that had just struck him, that _what_ she was wearing was of little relevance compared to how many layers she had on.

"Yes, true, but that's not your real aim here, is it?" he asked, and he noticed himself beginning to pace the space between his armchair and the window, but didn't try to stop himself. It felt good to work off the tight, restless feeling crackling in his chest. "Or at least, your clothing isn't entirely meant as a disguise for the benefit of some little old curtain-twitcher across the road."

She just smiled expectantly, although there were still lines of tension around her eyes and corners of her mouth.

"I was right about you sending a message with your clothing, but—"

"But wrong about how, and to what end?" she suggested, leaning forward on her elbows a bit more. Again there was some sort of current of unidentifiable emotion just below her mask of detached enjoyment, but he couldn't begin to fathom what it might mean. He didn't think it was as simple as her sentiment for him. He remembered her looks conveying that all too well, and this was different.

"As I said, it _was_ to do with the clothes. Only I was distracted by the fact it was menswear and didn't consider how many items—quite obscuring items at that—you had on."

"I tried to steer you in the right course, suggesting that it was a contrast to how I previously appeared in much less..." she said, and though her tone was light, her body language had tensed up even further.

"Yes, well, consider me caught up now," he replied quickly, and he felt his expression warming in approval in spite of the palpable tension in the room. He couldn't help but admire it, admire her. "It's an elegant inverse to our original meeting—then you wore none; now, too much—but you have precisely the same objective: to deliberately obfuscate my powers of observation. There's something about your body you don't want me to see. You know that now that I'm" he felt his cheeks warm but he pushed on without pause, "intimately familiar with your person, even the slightest change—a minimal fluctuation in weight, a cut, a bruise, newly toned muscle groups, type of moisturiser, state of personal grooming—will tell me everything I need to know."

But the solution to that would be to tell her to take at least some of her clothes off, and while he was normally unconcerned with modesty, especially when it stood in the way of reaching an answer, in this one case it was not really tenable. There were too many implications that her nudity held now, that it didn't represent when he had first met her. Now there were too many associated memories, which made such an idea too risky, even if it were ostensibly part of an effort to accrue data. Instead—to use a phrase Irene Adler would applaud—his hands were tied, and she was clever enough to realise that. Her secrets would remain safe until such time as she decided to divulge them.

_Or_, he wondered with a suddenly dry mouth, had she set up this exact scenario so as to bait him into telling her to strip, in the hope that those shared memories would play their part and turn his quest for data into something quite different? She did know him quite well and she was certainly more than adept at seduction. She would know that she couldn't approach him in any obviously prurient way...

He swallowed and then floundered, and found himself having absolutely nothing to say.

She watched him from her seat by the hearth for a moment, then cocked her head and said in a conversational voice, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

He paused in his step, but his heart picked up the pace in double time.

"Well I have to admit that I'm a bit surprised by your recklessness," he said with some reproach after a moment. "And I can't imagine what you think could possibly be worth jeopardising everything we accomplished last year in Karachi."

At those words she gave him an inscrutable and startlingly intense look, but to his great frustration she said nothing, and in another instant it had been replaced by a studiously casual, capricious expression.

"So let's say I am curious as to what that might be," he continued in a guarded tone, and unwilling to ask the words "Why are you here?" directly.

Since she had hammered him with the same exact question when he had come to her rescue in Karachi, the words held weight and implication. Those challenging words, which she had leveled at him with the tenacity of a crown prosecutor, had lead directly to his undoing. And that one initial loss of control—sparked by adrenaline, frustration, and lust, yes, but the manifestation of something much more substantial—had set off a devastating (in one way or another) series of occasions in which he had been emotionally compromised by her, either directly in the days that followed, or indirectly, in the subsequent years. He could not afford to go down that path again. In no small part because he wasn't certain if he could take the loss of her again—and such loss would inescapable, he knew.

An inevitable—and inevitably contentious—break would also cause the loss of an ideal. At present she was practically flawless in his mind, and he valued that; knowing that there was someone as extraordinary as him in the world made him feel less alone, even while they were apart. Yet if they became involved here in London he would eventually learn all of her mysteries and methods. That was typical in any relationship, and unavoidable if Sherlock were involved in one (and hell, even the _thought_ of that was preposterous). In such an arrangement she could very possibly become ordinary to him, and he would resent that fall to the mundane, and resent her. With John it didn't matter how well Sherlock became acquainted with him because he already knew that John was a somewhat normal, although wonderful in his own way, sort of bloke—so maintaining any sense of inscrutability or wonder was irrelevant to their relationship. But with Irene, that was everything...

And vice-versa. She felt sentiment for him, too—_still_, he was quite certain. But he had always held himself aloof from everyone else, partly to maintain his _own_ aura of infallibility, which was also of great value to him. He had lowered his defences once, and as much as he was willing to, and that had been indescribably rewarding. But he sensed that he had pursued that side of him to its fullest extent: they had hit the apogee of a bell curve, and increasing the variable of time whilst maintaining the same level of intimacy would only result in the curve's decline. And then everything would fall apart. He could lose the respect of someone who desperately mattered to him, and he could become disillusioned with her as well.

As much as a part of him did crave that intimacy and validation, might even need it in a way he could've never imagined before they'd reunited in Karachi, he simply couldn't risk what they already shared, just for the slimmest and most unlikely chance that it could be replicated once again.

It was unfortunate—the acute ache in his chest that represented the part of him that had been desperate for the past twenty months to see Irene certainly attested to that. But since he had eliminated all the other choices as being practically unfeasible, it was the only option.

"Let's say that yes, I do have urgent business in London, and while I was here I couldn't resist seeing an old friend," she finally answered, and it was infuriatingly vague and inadequate.

"Is that what you consider me, an 'old friend'?" he asked sharply, frustrated with her continued evasiveness, and also strangely stung and a touch annoyed. That term couldn't begin to describe the complex dynamic of their relationship, and while what they had shared was almost impossible to define, it was quite clear that 'old friend' did not suffice.

She just looked away, then her expression changed into one of faint mischief and she asked deflectively, "Could I pass as one of your famous homeless network? The cafe proprietor was certainly casting me dark looks. Apparently he doesn't recall his stares of an altogether different nature the last time I was here."

Sherlock frowned. That Mr. Chatterjee _was_ a complete cruiser. Still, her apparent carelessness angered him. They had nearly lost their lives in Pakistan, and now it seemed that she was repaying his efforts (and hers) with absolute recklessness. Something seemed amiss here, and it was unsettling, but after a brief frown, he reverted his attention to her comment.

"You won't be so lucky not to be recognised next time—and it won't be someone like Mr. Chatterjee who doesn't _matter_," Sherlock growled. "So unless you're here for a particularly compelling reason, as I said, it's excessively stupid to reappear in London, let alone at my flat, _competent disguise or no._"

"Would you characterise me that way, Sherlock? Excessively stupid?"

His eyes passed over her again, and he conceded, "No... There _was_ that whole business with your phone's password," he added on in a sardonic tone, but then he paused and when he resumed speaking his tone changed, and became more thoughtful. "But I... can't exactly fault you for succumbing to sentiment, when I myself..."

"Yes," she said when he started to falter, saving him from completing the thought, and he gave a brief nod, and felt momentarily grateful.

"So you do have a compelling reason," he interpreted, but she only looked at him steadily, and he flushed with agitation (and perhaps not a small dose of worry, he realised). "This isn't a game, Irene," he admonished sharply. "I went to quite some trouble to ensure that your new identity was untraceable to my brother, but if you're just going to—"

"Sherlock," she interrupted, her tone firm but her expression strangely compassionate. "Your brother is the person with whom I have my business. He's the one I went to go see first. We've been in contact for several months now."

Having had resolved the dilemma of how to proceed in his interaction with Irene in what he had thought was an admirably calm and rational manner, Sherlock was not prepared for the onslaught of emotion that her revelation brought on. He felt suddenly white hot with fury, his pulse hammering hard in his temples and swelling into a dull roar in his ears. He turned his back firmly against her, and for several moments his jaw worked as he struggled to gain control against what would be a telling outburst.

"So. Done with Junior once again, are you?" he finally managed through clenched teeth, his voice sounding almost strangled.

In her reflection in the window, he noticed her flinch slightly at those words, but he couldn't begin to understand that reaction, and he found himself not particularly caring; his anger consumed everything.

The silence stretched out for what felt like several minutes, but could have been only several seconds, before he heard her let out a small breath.

"You're right, Sherlock," she said, and now her tone was filled with some sort of grave emotion which was as unclear to him as her flinch had been. "This isn't a game." After a beat, she added softly, "Not at all."

Something that felt like rage still seethed inside him at her revelation that she and his brother had been in communication without informing him of it (or was it jealousy? he thought, and a detached part of himself laughed in scorn).

"Oh, please," he retorted in a low voice that still betrayed his barely-contained fury. "It's _always_ a game with you, Irene."

"Not last time," she said, in such a low murmur that he could barely hear her. "And not now."

This entire situation had abruptly spiraled completely out of control, but there was certainly a strong precedent for that. The question was, when had he ever been able to maintain personal control with her? He always attempted it, of course, but always ended up being three steps behind, trying to play catch-up. For a man who was constantly ten steps ahead, it was highly disconcerting. Sometimes it was disconcerting in an incredibly attractive way, but at present it was simply upsetting and overwhelming. He hadn't forgotten what he had resolved, but it certainly faded to the back of his mind in light of this new information.

_His brother had been in communication with her, neither of them had informed him, and yet it wasn't a game on her part?_

"Prove it, then," he said angrily, stopping in place and cutting his hand down through the air towards her. "Tell me why you're here. Tell me now, with no pretense, or go. I have neither the time nor the inclination to personally experience a plotline straight out of _EastEnders_."

She looked up sharply at that, and he disclaimed on the next breath but in the same tone, "John watches it."

"Why I'm here," she repeated softly, and he was both gratified and frustrated to see her looking somewhat wary herself.

"I'm waiting," he interrupted, his voice hard even while something traitorous within him reacted sympathetically to her expression.

She looked up and sat a bit straighter, then asked, "I want to know how you are."

He shot her an incredulous look, then scoffed deeply. "Really, that's the reason you're here," he drawled in a voice heavy with skepticism. "To _check in _on me."

"Yes," she said simply.

He tightened his lips into a thin white line as he stared at her in incredulous reproach. Still, perhaps if he played by her impenetrable rules and humoured her, it would lead to actual answers. _'Not a game,' indeed_, he thought resentfully.

"I have my work," he answered tersely. "And I have a good assistant." _Friend_, his mind corrected, but he wasn't about to indicate any signs of attachment or vulnerability to Irene at the moment.

"So you're happy," she interpreted, although her voice held none of its usual assertive confidence.

His lip curled at that word. Happiness was never a driving motivation for him, and using such a word to describe his levels of satisfaction was trite and lacked nuance. Avoiding boredom, engaging his mind were his life's driving goals. If he met those needs, he supposed he was more or less satisfied, but he would never use such a frivolous word as '_happy'_.

...Although he couldn't necessarily say he _was_ entirely satisfied, regardless of his friendship with John and the relatively adequate levels of work. But the reasons for that were best left unexamined. He had already determined the future course of his and Irene's interaction, and further examining his emotions would only threaten to undermine his resolve.

"Well sometimes John forces me to Cif out the fridge after my specimens rot," he sneered. "Or people ask me inane questions," he said with heavy insinuation. "That does tend to put a damper on things."

But his face suddenly lifted in an expression of breaking clarity, and he whirled back towards the woman sitting behind him, his eyes now focusing on her with laser precision.

"But _you_ don't ask inane questions," he stated, finally coming around the chair and sitting opposite her. "Every word from your mouth is chosen with care, often in order to further a particular agenda." He leaned forward, his eyes sharp and probing. "So why are you asking me this? You know I know you better than to think you'd just engage me in small talk. You're trying to figure something out. But what?"

Irene didn't answer.

His lip curled further, showing his teeth, and an idea suddenly occurred to him, although it was a rather cynical one.

"Are you wondering if I've been pining after you?" he asked sarcastically as if the idea were absurd—was not in fact entirely accurate, "Had trouble adjusting to life without _The_ Woman?"

"Well John did tell me you'd been writing sad music the first time we parted ways, when you thought I was dead," she shot back, but sarcastically. _And a bit defensively herself, perhaps_, Sherlock thought in a very rare moment of insight when it came to Irene.

But he had been seized by his theory, and he plowed ahead with it. Jumping up from the chair again he resumed his pacing "—Thinking that if I still have feelings for you I can go to bat for you against Big Brother? Commute your exile?"

She looked at him levelly for a moment, then said, "I assure you, I need no help in that regard. I can handle Mycroft Holmes all on my own. Dare I say, more effectively than even you can."

Sherlock pursed his lips, not liking the potential implication of her words.

_But that's utterly absurd_, he thought, willfully dismissing the sudden and unbidden suspicion. Mycroft would never be interested in her in that way, and it was beyond ludicrous to even entertain the thought.

...But then again, the same could have been said for Sherlock, before Irene had changed all of that. And just what _was_ she concealing about her physical self? Evidence that she'd been intimate with someone else? Would she hide something like that from him, while simultaneously referencing the fact that she was doing so? When he had first met her he would have answered in the affirmative, but now he didn't quite think so, although it certainly seemed from his automatic reaction that the idea bothered him a great deal.

"'Still' have feelings?" she asked, as if as in tune with his thoughts as ever.

His face involuntarily contorted into a grimace. "Yes. Well," he said in a soft but somewhat resentful voice, "I think that was established. But that was twenty months ago—nearly two years. Must we rehash the whole business?"

She gave him a piercing, searching look that seemed to correlate with all the other strange body language she had been broadcasting, and which further struck alarm bells within him. But he deliberately dismissed the automatic question they raised, as he did with those that arose from her quietly-spoken next statement:

"You're right. Twenty months is a long time—time enough to change everything."

* * *

**[To Be Continued...]**

**"Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection."**

**- German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer**

**This chapter got to be quite long, so I'll be uploading the concluding half either tomorrow or the following day, as soon as I've been able to finish editing it.**

**Thanks for reading and I welcome and value any questions or comments :)**


	8. Lies, Truths, and Obfuscations

**Yes I am very late! Right after I posted this, my best friend texted me telling me that she and her boyfriend were getting married. I called back to say congratulations, and ask if they had set a date. She told me that they had—and that it was "Next week!"**

**So we've been running around frantically, trying to get everything done in time, and I haven't had a spare second for anything else. Apologies! But the wedding did end up going perfectly, and now they're off to Paris for a week :)**

**Anyway, without further delay...!**

* * *

**Lies, Truths, and Obfuscations**

"In conclusion," Sherlock announced without allowing himself to be diverted by her baiting comment, "You've managed to convince Mycroft to permit you back in the country and now you have 'business' with him. Business you won't discuss with me, apparently."

She met his eyes, but her expression was unsmiling and seemed to subtly emote some sort of stress or anxiety.

"Well you clearly have some sort of leverage," he reasoned as if stating the obvious, and her entire face tightened. _Ah, finally a cue I can read_, he thought with both gratification and exasperation. "And the only thing my brother would care about that _you_ have to offer is intelligence. Couldn't stop misbehaving, could you?"

"Never." She flashed a full closed-lip smile, but her voice sounded tight.

He quite consciously ignored how very attractive that smile made her look—and how attractive it was that she had never stopped misbehaving.

"And you ask me how I'm _doing_, as if gauging me for some reason."

"Sound observations," she said, though the following caveat of "but..." was evident in her tone.

He nearly lost his calm then, and gripped the back of his chair, squeezing the careworn leather tightly in his hands. "I told you to tell me why you were here, or else go," he said through nearly gritted teeth, then pivoted sharply at the waist to gesture towards the door with his head.

She drew in a quiet but deep and seemingly steadying breath (_was that right? That didn't seem right_), then looked him in the eye and stated, "I had to see you."

Part of him wanted to demand _why_ but he felt that that would be relinquishing too much restraint, so instead he stated, deadpan, "Clearly. Yet you gave _me_ no say in the matter, no chance to turn you away." Still, his hands were taut claws digging into the chair.

She fixed him with a level look, and once more it felt like she could see directly to his mind, and read it just as he had read her clothing. She said in a matter-of-fact, albeit slightly chiding tone, "Sherlock, you've already admitted to me that you traveled to America and went to my flat. That doesn't sound like the act of a man who wanted to avoid me."

He certainly had no retort for that, but he noticed the rigor-like state of his hands and put them in his pockets.

"Although..." Her expression shifted and was once more unfathomable. "I'm also aware that you've had the means by which to contact me for ten months, and yet you've chosen not to do so."

He felt himself blanche at being confronting so directly with that, but steeled himself. "Yes. It was better that way," he replied, curt, and the fact was, despite how difficult the decision had been at the outset, it had been better that way. It was one of the few times that he had been able to exhibit some self-control with her, and it had unquestionably been the correct decision. Who knew where his relationship with John or his consulting detective practice would be, had he diverted critical focus during that sensitive and pivotal time to her?

"At first I wondered if it had been lost or intercepted," she stated, "but then I saw a picture of you in your flat—here—taken during an interview by the Guardian that I'm guessing John finally managed to coerce you into doing. And there was my postcard, visible just behind your left shoulder, propped up on your bookshelf. So I understood then that you had made the conscious decision not to get back in touch."

"That's correct," he said in a detached, cold voice. Was he repaying her revelation that she had been in communication with Mycroft with his own callousness? He suspected yes, and though that made him feel petty, he proceeded anyway. His words may have been conceived out of lingering anger, but they served another purpose as well—to further firm up the wall between them. "And the only reason I made the trip this time is because somehow everything I'd achieved in Karachi was put into jeopardy. It wasn't personal, you should know that's in the past."

Her eyebrows momentarily drew together as if stung by his comment, but she lifted her chin and said, "I recall a similar narrative last time, Sherlock. Something about you not wanting for a mind such as mine to go to waste, you wanted the challenge, the rush... But after we cut through all your self-sabotaging rationalisations we uncovered other reasons too, didn't we?"

Sherlock looked away from her, his traitorous heart hammering in a way he was certain she could hear.

"I believe self-sabotage is what I would be doing if I went down that road with you again. Whatever other reason you have for coming here, whatever you want from me, I can't give you. I never really could. Yes, we spent time together twenty months ago. And it was—as I said then, I wouldn't forget it. And I haven't. Nor do I regret it. But it wasn't...real. It was the result of a confluence of unique and volatile set of circumstances, one which can never be repeated."

"Is that what you believe?" she asked, slowly straightening until she was sitting up at her full height, her face flushing and eyes hard.

"'Believe'?" he repeated with cold derision, although his heart was still pounding in his ears. "No. It's what I know." This was said in a tone of finality, even while he was aware the he was in fact lying outright. His next words were slightly more truthful, although still counteractive to what part of him wanted. "I've had a long time to consider those days, and - even if there were ...genuine sentiments... it could never be sustainable. I can't entangle myself in those type of connections. You pride yourself on knowing what drives a man, so surely you see what drives me now."

"Yes. I do," Irene said, and let that statement stand for a moment, so that it was Sherlock's turn to flush.

"But you'll notice that you're arguing against something I never actually proposed. How you assume," she said, shaking her head slightly. All the trace of playfulness was gone from her voice, replaced with something that sounded like censure. "The ego has been left unscathed by your encounter with Moriarty, I see."

He bristled at once, her implication that he hadn't emotionally grown deeply cutting him. It was so ironic when he considered how he had longed for the very woman standing before him, and would have humiliated himself in a number of untold ways to have had the chance just to speak with her just after his 'encounter' with Moriarty, and yet he knew he must not contradict her. She _should_ think that he had resumed thinking of himself as the impervious man-god he had when they'd first met. It would make all of this much easier if she didn't think he was susceptible to anything relating to sentiment.

But then again perhaps it was moot, because he realised that as a matter of fact she _hadn't_ asked him if, were she to remain in London, they would see one another.

"I..." he trailed off with a deep frown. Putting aside the weakness of his own emotional turmoil, if she wasn't here to enlist his assistance with his brother, nor try and recreate what had once passed between them, why was she here? He wracked his mind trying to imagine her motives, but found himself drawing a blank.

"I _still_ fail to see why you needed to see me," he said, again managing to sidestep the loaded question of 'why are you here?'.

Irene stared at him in deep concentration, her blue eyes sparking with razor-sharp intensity, and Sherlock didn't think he had ever been appraised so critically, especially by anyone outside his family. Yet this was distinctly different from suffering under Mycroft's analytical eye when he'd been a younger man. If Mycroft had seen something he disliked he would tell off his brother and make threats which Sherlock didn't care about and Mycroft couldn't keep. But if Irene saw something that she disliked, what would the consequences be then? Or if she saw something she _liked_, for that matter? And it was unsettling for reasons other than the unknown potential outcomes. The stare itself felt invasive and uncomfortable—he felt as if he were being assessed in some essential way, or weighed and judged. He much preferred to be on the side collecting the data, not offering it.

"I needed to speak to you. I wanted to tell you that I—" She looked away from him for a moment, then reforged eye contact, and continued without pause but with a subtle swerve in her tone, like an audiotape of a concerto jumping a single note, "am back in London. I don't know for how long. And that your brother does know, but I'm not in danger. What happened in Karachi wasn't for naught."

He looked back into her eyes, knowing with complete certainty that she had just almost informed him of something, something important—the real reason she was here and the reason for her disguise, in fact—and then, she had decided against it. He had failed her assessment, and he had been deemed untrustworthy or unfit somehow. That realisation gave him a winded, aching sensation in his chest and behind his eyes, and he understood that in this case the sting had much more to do with her obviously withholding something from him than it did with him not having the full information itself. He was broken from this thought when she took another one of those quiet breaths.

"And I wanted to..." His heart began to feel as if it were hurling itself up against his ribs as he watched her, transfixed by her eye contact. Would she say after all? But her eyes shifted from his as she continued, "...thank you again, in person. For saving my life. Everything has completely changed as a result of that, but—_and_ I have to thank you for that as well."

For a moment he didn't really process the content of her words except to note that she hadn't still shared anything of any significance with him. She had decided not to entrust him, and though he still felt that raw agitation, he cognitively understood that it was the preferable outcome. Though he hadn't the faintest idea what it could be that she had kept to herself, he nonetheless had the suspicion that whatever it was would have posed a considerable threat to his defenses, which were weak enough, and growing ever weaker the longer she sat in his living room.

He noticed that she was regarding him again, although now it was in an expectant manner, and he blinked and replayed her words in his head.

_"Everything has completely changed...and I have you to thank..."_ He assumed that she was referring to the way he had set her up with forged documentation to provide her with an alternate identity, and he replied stiffly, "I'm pleased the passport worked."

"You saved mine as well," he pointed out quietly a moment later, referring to the time in Karachi when her skills at reading and manipulating people, and then getting them to bend to her will, had saved them from a mortally dangerous situation. He had meant for it to imply that she didn't owe him anything (not that her thanks had really been what she'd intended to say, of course), but it came out earnest and sincere.

She smiled softly, though it didn't reach her eyes, and without another word she stood.

She walked towards Sherlock and even while he felt all his systems freeze up, he still managed to have just enough presence of mind to take the opportunity to discretely inhale the air around her. He was first hit by the odour of the clothes—simultaneously musty and smelling strongly of cheap detergent, and then he detected a pleasant and sophisticated scent of expensive soap (_French and triple milled_, he thought), as well as a mild, faintly sweet aroma that he at first mistook as one of the notes of the soap fragrance. But no, it was distinct, and unfamiliar to him. Before he could attempt to analyse what it could be, she was drawing even closer, and he stiffened his back in one movement that almost looked, and certainly felt, like a flinch.

She paused for a moment at this, but then leaned in and kissed him once on the cheek, so lightly he barely felt it—just a whisper of touch, really. When she moved back, a powerful urge to grasp her arm and pull her back for a more proper and thorough kiss took hold of him. He managed to remain still, but his hands tightened into balls in his pockets and his breath quickened in his lungs.

Then she carefully tucked her hair back into the hood of her jumper and turned back towards the stairs. She dropped John's keys into the bowl by the door where he always kept them. Had she recalled that from her visit so long ago?

_She must have_, he thought, feeling deeply pleased by that minute gesture for some reason, despite himself.

In fact, the anger he had originally felt towards her at her abrupt appearance and her revelation that she had been in communication with his brother had faded, and after that fleeting pleased sensation did as well, he was left with only a hollow, numb and somewhat shell-shocked feeling in their wakes. An impulsive part of him longed to call her back, but the rational part of him that knew how much of a capacity she had to wreck him, just when he had gotten reasonably back on track, stopped him. Moreover, this wasn't a brief interlude in a foreign country; this was his actual life, and he had no room in such a life—both in terms of his time or space in his brain—for personal diversion or sexual indulgence.

Fortunately, since he had conquered his drug addiction, he had excelled at finding the self-discipline to always choose the rational option, and he would do so in this challenging situation as well. So rather than call after her, he just watched from the first storey window as she stepped out of the front door, further tightening the hoodie around her face as she turned south towards Baker Street Station. It wasn't long before she almost faded out of sight, her grey jumper blurred by the enveloping mist that had started in the past hour, and then she was swallowed up by the throng of rush-hour pedestrians, and lost from view.

Without quite realising what he was doing, he lifted one hand from his pocket and briefly touched his fingertips to the chilled windowpane. He wondered if he would see her again, and felt both relieved and agitated that the kiss had felt like one that said goodbye.

But the fury over the communication between she and Mycroft had by no means disappeared. Instead it had refocused singularly on Mycroft, and a moment after he had lost sight of her entirely, he spun away from the window, strode around his chair to dig his phone from between its cushion and armrest, and started composing an irate text to his brother.

* * *

Mycroft was tidying up his desk at the Diogenes Club and preparing to leave for the evening, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and immediately his heart plunged into his stomach when he read the text he had received.

_Irene Adler has just paid me a visit, says she's been in contact with you for several months. Explain this_.

His fingers trembling slightly (_That _damn_ woman!_) he replied evasively, _Ms. Adler has always chosen the course that best serves her. You would be wise to remember that._

He had barely hit send when his phone vibrated again, and he shut the door of his office, sighed sharply, then hit the answer symbol and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock—"

But his brother bulldozed over any attempt Mycroft could make to take control of the situation before Sherlock had the chance to really build up a head of steam.

"You came to my flat," he said, low and livid, "you told me that you knew she was alive and that you were looking for her. But you _failed_ to mention a pertinent detail or two! Was she the one who told you about Karachi?" Now it amplified almost to a shout. "_Answer_ me, Mycroft. Did she tell you, or did you attempt to use me to track her down after you learned that she was alive through another source?"

Mycroft wanted to lie to his brother, to disavow all knowledge, but the woman was forcing his hand. Cursing the name Irene Adler and every subsequent alias she'd ever held, he admitted tightly, "She revealed to me that she was still alive." He heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath on the other end, then continued, "I put the rest together myself—once I knew that she had survived, everything else was obvious. The circumstances of her escape, your involvement..."

He paused, then with one more bitter curse mentally flung towards the former Ms. Adler, he said, "She risked exposure because she wanted to come back to London, under my protection, and she had a proposal she thought would provide some incentive for me to agree. Of course correctly so, I confess," he added, his tone unmistakably resentful.

There was a deadly silence, punctuated only by the sound of his brother's now rapid breathing as he processed what Mycroft knew would be feelings of betrayal. Not that Sherlock would ever confess that to him.

But if he asked directly what she had offered that could possibly ensure Mycroft's protection, what would he say? He knew that Sherlock would initially assume it was information, but he would demand details, and Mycroft didn't want to contradict any story that Ms. Adler might have fed him.

_Lies begetting lies_, he thought with some bitterness. Professionally that was all well and good, it was for the safety and security of the country. But he preferred to leave gross deception out of his relationship with Sherlock if he could help it. Unfortunately in this scenario he could not—Irene Adler had ensured that.

Just what _the hell_ was that woman playing at by seeing Sherlock? he thought again, outraged at her apparent capriciousness. And good lord, where was _Nero_? She had told Mycroft that he was the only one he could trust, and yet the child wasn't in his care, and yet the child wasn't in his care since she had retrieved him about ten hours previous, having returned from the aggravatingly mysterious errand she refused to discuss (but which his CCTV technicians were currently mapping for him, which would hopefully provide some answers). Nor had Irene brought him with her, obviously. He doubted that Sherlock would be phoning him now if he had just learned that he was a father. Although even without the baby, he was surprised at how it appeared that Sherlock hadn't noticed anything. She was dangerous and out of control, but she was still good. Not that that had ever been in question...

"But Sherlock, I didn't lie to you," (_about that_, he silently added). "I didn't know where she was, but judging from her correspondence I knew that I needed to locate her. You were my best chance at finding her."

"Have you seen her yet?" he asked in the slightly shaky voice his brother recognised as one which warned that Sherlock was precariously close to losing control.

"Yes. After you'd left. She appeared in my office yesterday, quite unexpectedly."

"How long?" Sherlock ground out.

"Sherlock—"

"_How long have you known_?"

"That is _not_ your concern," Mycroft said, suddenly coming to a solution that would prevent further lies—a total information blackout. And that actually _should_ be the proper protocol here, he realised.

"Our arrangement is between the two of us alone. Why would I tell you?" he asked, his own voice now steadily climbing and intensifying. "I'm sure I don't need to point out what happened the last time you became entangled with her. Years of work and highly-sensitive international coordination were wasted because you had to show off—you fell for her plan with pathetic ease, and your actions damn near lead to an international incident! You have no idea the lengths I had to go to smooth things over. And even thought you were fully aware of how much you'd compromised everything, you still went ahead with your little rescue, threatening to undermine all the reparative progress I had made. You knowingly and willfully made me a liar, even after you saw firsthand that she never really cared about you."

Suddenly a memory of one thing she had said to him the previous day flashed in his mind, and an idea, albeit a rather loathsome one, occurred to him. Still, it was the means to a necessary end.

"Alright, if you must know—and perhaps it's best that you do—_that_ is what she threatened me with," he snarled contemptuously. "Exposure. Exposure of _you_r indiscretions. Now, once again, I am the one who has to go to distasteful measures to clean up after you—to make deals with the likes of _her_." He paused for a moment to take a calming breath, and he finished in a tone of ice-cold menace, "I hope that this is it now, Sherlock. I'm growing rather tired of cleaning up the messes you create over that damnable woman. It's time for you to grow up, and cease this _humiliating_ behaviour of yours."

It had been quite a while since Mycroft had so forcefully upbraided Sherlock, and it was distinctly unpleasant, and made him think of their father for the first time in years. Once upon a time reprimanding his brother had been a fairly regular occurrence, when Mycroft had been in his late twenties and through to his early thirties, and during those incidents he had often resented Sherlock for putting him in such a position—for making him take on the role of their father and have to relate to a man whom he both idolised and detested. In the 90s and early 2000s, the topic of the reprimands had been Sherlock's drug usage and the related matter that he would disappear for weeks at a time with no communication with anyone in the family. More recently, it had been confined to a topic he'd never have thought would be a concern for his brother: women. Or to be more precise, one woman—_the_ woman.

Well. It appeared that Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only Holmes brother in whom Irene Adler could incite strong emotion, but in his case it was confined to anger.

For a moment there was silence. Then Sherlock spoke, and his voice sounded completely different. It was monotone and seemed devoid of any emotion, although Mycroft knew that in reality Sherlock was feeling just the opposite.

"Blackmail," he said. "That's how she was able to ensure your protection... she leveraged my rescue of her against you, in order to coerce you into agreeing to her demands."

Although it was partially true, it was certainly misleading, but at this point Mycroft was beginning to care much less about such things. His anger was getting the best of him. And it would be far, far better this way. Let his brother see Ms. Adler for who she really was. Perhaps his eyes would finally be cleared, and his childish and chaos-inducing sentiment put aside. _Before_ the situation was potentially worsened in spectacular fashion by his discovery of Nero.

"_Of_ _course _blackmail, Sherlock," he said with contempt. "Hark whom we're discussing. Ms. Adler threatened to inform my counterparts in America, Germany, and Canada that I knew all about your plan and in effect sanctioned it by not taking any action to stop you, or against you once you accomplished it. She told me she had a source who had access to evidence, and with one phone call or missed communication from Ms. Adler, that information would be released to the interested parties."

"But, you didn't know," Sherlock said, sounding uncharacteristically credulous.

"_Irrelevant_," Mycroft snapped, his sharp tone implying that his brother was being disgracefully naïve.

More silence met this, and though Mycroft sensed that he was getting his wish regarding his brother and his feelings for Ms. Adler, Mycroft still pitied him. It couldn't be easy to be so helpless, held so captive by such hateful emotions, particularly for a mind normally so rational and ordered as Sherlock's.

"I'm sure you'll understand why I had to be discrete, particularly given your past behaviour," Mycroft went on in a softer, more sympathetic voice. "But I certainly haven't any idea what she's playing at in _contacting_ you, other than to simply toy with you, or to privately gloat at what she's accomplished. It is not to be borne, and I will have words with her, I assure you."

Mycroft heard a swallow, a low exhale, and then the muted sound of a dead connection. Sherlock had hung up.

* * *

**Next Chapter: Irene's POV and a bit of a flashback ;) **

**(...AKA an M rating...)**


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